My Fair Meister
by BendAndCurl
Summary: Resbang 2015. Raised in the slums of London, Maka becomes involved in a complicated scheme to pose as a Duchess and help gentleman Soul Eaton to catch the eye of an aloof heiress. But what happens when Maka and Soul start to fall for each other instead? (My Fair Lady AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note:** Here it is, my Resbang 2015 submission, _My Fair Meister_ , based on My Fair Lady. Before I proceed I have to give massive thanks to Professor Maka for betaing this. The story would not exist without her extensive help, patience, and willingness to bounce ideas at 1am. Seriously I cannot say this enough, she deserves all the props. And to my wonderful artist, Laura, who is also an author I greatly admire, it was an honor (and much fun!) to work with you! I couldn't have asked for a better partner. Her art will be linked shortly! The rest of my thanks goes to redphlox, earth-shines, makapedia, and sojustifiable for the encouragement and listening to me fuss about this thing for five months.

Warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter. Thanks for reading!

Warnings for Ch. 1: vomit, mentions of (very minor) character deaths

* * *

 _(England, 1910)_

He was sitting at the piano when he heard the news. There was nothing to punctuate the moment of the day when his life changed– the servants were murmuring in the hall, preparing to set the table for lunch, birds were fighting outside the window, their new telephone rang.

Dust drifted in motes of light as the sun emerged from its foggy shroud, and Wes was calling his name.

"Brother, Brother, come quick, something awful has happened!"

Soul dragged himself through the house, into the one room he never visited.

Wes sat on a sofa in the parlour, where the telephone was prominently displayed, a symbol of the opulence and modernity with which the Eaton name had come to be associated. Lord and Lady Evans typically received and entertained visitors in this room, as well. Soul was never there when this happened, of course.

 _Odd-looking. Abomination. How unfortunate. Poor Lady Evans. What a disgrace._

These phrases tended to accompany Soul's name, if it was even brought up at all. The Viscount and his wife preferred to pretend they didn't have a second son, whenever possible. If visitors asked, he was dreadfully ill and unfit for company.

 _Unfit_. By far his favorite descriptor.

And then then there was Wes, the golden child, everything his parents had ever wanted…

Looking more frightened than Soul had ever seen him.

"Wes, what's wrong?" Soul lingered in the doorway, loath to cross the forbidden threshold into that hated room that had come to represent all he was not, could never be.

"It's mother and father... There's been an accident. Their carriage..."

"Oh..." His mind was having trouble processing this.

"Soul, I'm– I'm frightened. I can't do this. I'm so scared."

"Don't be," Soul told him earnestly. "You'll be an excellent successor. You honor the family name."

"Soul, Kid called. The will… It leaves everything to me."

Soul stared at his brother uncertainly. "And?"

"We'll fight it, of course, you'll– you'll get your share and–"

"No." Soul was firm. "I don't want their money. Do whatever you want with it. I was never their son."

Something nasty, something awful, was fighting its way out of him, like a monster in his chest, and he barely had time to rush out of the parlour, out to the majestic foyer of their country estate, in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the terrace limestone.

After some time, he became aware of Wes, rubbing his back and murmuring unintelligible things at him. Soul spit one last time and wiped his mouth roughly on his sleeve.

"I know how Mother and Father treated you, made you out to be less– less deserving– but, Soul. I am your brother. That will never change. We are–" Wes' voice broke. "We are all we have now– all that's left of the Evans title, of the Eaton name. It's up to us to honor the legacy."

There _were_ things Wes did, of course, that the Lord and Lady Evans either hadn't known about or simply chose to ignore, and both Soul and his brother knew that could be a problem. Even before his relationship with Kid, there had been the revolving door of men, the gambling, the trysts with aristocratic widows. Wes was deeply flawed, but he was the only one who had ever loved Soul, and Soul cared for him more than anyone. They were brothers. Nothing could change that.

"I know that, Wes. And… for as little as it's worth, I'll stand by you, whatever happens."

Wes sagged in relief. "Thank you, Soul. I can't tell you how much your discretion means to me."

"Let's go inside. I don't want to think about this anymore."

It was a less than auspicious ending to an otherwise heartfelt discussion, but it suited them both just fine, and each was relieved to have gotten it out of the way.

The funeral plans proceeded without a hitch, and several months later the new Viscount Evans and his younger brother found themselves on a train headed for London.

* * *

She was lucky to make it to the station in time. Droplets of condensed steam slithered down windowpanes and the rafters shook beneath her feet as she scrambled onto the platform, one hand on her hat, clamping it firmly to her head, and the other gathering her skirts. Her small carpet bag of belongings swung angrily from the crook of her elbow as she ran.

Only once she was safely aboard the train and settled into an unoccupied compartment did Maka Albarn allow herself to relax. Her past was firmly behind her now– she hadn't bothered looking back at the station once the train began to pull away from the platform. Now the rhythm of the wheels on the track lulled her into a sense of peace and she felt that perhaps she could finally get some sleep.

But once she closed her eyes and lay her cheek against the cool windowpane, images, unbidden, began to flash through her mind, and she thought about her former employer and the unfairness of her dismissal. How would she ever sleep again?

Best not to think about it, she chided herself. _If you ask yourself that, you'll think about where you're going, and then you'll wonder how you'll eat, where you'll stay, what's to become of you_ –

Maka forced herself to take several calming breaths.

 _Just look out the window, then._

The whistle was now blowing full force and the shouts of the conductor were nearly drowned by the rumbling of the powerful steam engine. The next stop was approaching. She desperately hoped no one tried to sit in her compartment– she was having enough trouble handling her emotions on her own, and doubted her abilities would extend to include prying old aunties and loud, unruly children, if it came to that. She shuddered.

Her fears were realized when she heard a knock and the compartment door slid open to reveal two men.

"Pardon me, didn't know there was anyone in here," said a tall, fair haired man. "But I think we'll have to be joining you, all the others are full."

"Oh." She tried very much not to look the way she felt. _Why couldn't I just be left alone?_

"If we may?"

"Yes, of course."

"Excellent. Soul, bring those in here, will you?" he called over his shoulder at a stooped, elderly man who was facing the hallway.

At her questioning gaze, the tall man cleared his throat and asked, "If we may?"

"Yes, of course." This gentleman was very rich, by the looks of him, and certainly used to getting his way. She wondered what he was doing in third class.

Maka thought it unconscionable that he was forcing his elderly relative to bear the burdens of so many packages– for there were many of them. She turned to face the old man. "Erm, would you like some help with those?"

"No, I love carting my brother's rubbish all over the country. Highlight of my vacation."

The old man turned around then and she saw that he wasn't old at all. In fact, he was about her age, perhaps a few years older. It was clear he must be the tall man's brother– for he had the same look about him, aside from a few crucial differences. He had terrible posture and shockingly white hair, but that was hardly the most unusual thing about him. His eyes, which were sliding towards her lazily, were a bright red, and when he smiled in greeting, she noticed that his teeth were sharp and serrated, like the edge of a knife.

She raised an eyebrow. _What an odd pair these two made_.

"If you don't mind my asking, why didn't you stow it all in the luggage compartment?"

The younger one answered. "Wes brought all this sh- sorry, all of these _things_ from our estate in the country".

Maka raised both of her eyebrows this time. _An estate in the country? What_ _ **were**_ _they doing in third class?_

As if he read her mind, the younger one continued, "We couldn't fit them into our luggage and they kicked us out of first class. Trust me, there's probably another five cartfuls in the luggage compartment already."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Ignore him, please. He has absolutely terrible manners. I'm Wesley Eaton, Viscount Evans, and this is my brother, Solomon."

"No one calls me that. It's _Soul_ ," corrected the red-eyed man.

"Yes, yes," said the Viscount. "We're all going to be _great_ chums on this train ride, I can tell." His brows were wiggling like rabid caterpillars and she _fervently_ hoped he wasn't trying to flirt. "You simply _must_ call me Wes!"

Soul groaned loudly, though whether it was at his brother's antics or the weight of the packages he was moving, she couldn't be sure.

Maka reached a hand out to shake with Wes, but he leaned down to brush his lips across the tops of her knuckles. She snatched her hand back as quickly as she possibly could without giving offense. He chuckled at this and she felt herself go red with mortification. She was so flustered she forgot to introduce herself. Unfazed, Wes spread out luxuriously across from her and watched his brother with smug delight.

"Ready yet?" he called. "When you're done with the packages, we can play another game and if you beat me this time, I'll help you unload them when we arrive at the station."

In answer, Soul made a rude gesture at his brother and kept moving parcels and packages into the compartment, until they were piled high and covering almost every available surface. She very much regretted letting them into her compartment, but it was too late now. She was going to spend the next six hours wondering when the precariously piled stacks were going to collapse all around her. The train would pull in to London and the attendants would find the three of them buried beneath haphazardly wrapped packages from "Bobby's Hobbies" and "The Petulant Porcupine".

"What _is_ all this?" she asked, barely saving a small package from sliding to the floor as the train took a turn.

"It's very important," Wes said defensively, snatching it away. "Don't touch it."

"It is not." His brother reached over and tugged the parcel open to reveal a porcelain figurine of a Dalmatian. "He's obsessed with these things."

"You're just jealous because it's so precious. And you shouldn't scold me, Soul. I seem to remember you just _had_ to have that ghastly orange contraption."

"That's different! Automobiles are the way of the future, Wes."

"But did you have to get it painted such a garish color?"

"It's more respectable than the hundreds of porcelain figurines you hoard."

"Hoard? _Hoard_? How very dare you– I am a _collector_!"

The two brothers continued to bicker, almost as if they had completely forgotten that she was there.

They were interrupted by a second knock on the compartment door. It was the ticket inspector, come to check their tickets. The gentlemen produced theirs without incident, but Maka discovered, to her horror, that she no longer had hers.

She pawed through the carpet bag that had come to carry all she owned in this world, checked the inside of her hat, even reached discreetly into the neckline of her blouse to ensure she had not somehow stuck it into her corset that morning.

No luck.

"Erm, if you'll just– I'm certain it was just here, I–"

At that moment, the train lurched to a stop, with a terrific grinding noise and a rumbling that had Wes scrambling to retrieve falling figurines before they shattered all over the floor.

"One moment. I'll be back, so don't go anywhere," said the ticket inspector.

Maka sighed in relief. She was out of the thick of it for the moment, but for the life of her, she could not figure out where her ticket had gone!

"No ticket?" asked Soul.

"I just had it at the station! It's got to be here somewhere. Maybe under…" her eyes darted around and her heart sank. "All these packages…"

There seemed to be a commotion aboard the train, with attendants running about and making a fuss.

"I'll go check what's going on," said Soul. "You two wait here."

Maka and Wes faced each other awkwardly once he left. She was certain that her ticket was somewhere underneath the pile of rubbish he'd covered her compartment in, and he was holding the Dalmatian with a white-knuckled grip, clearly unwilling to upend the delicate balance of the packages for her search.

Well, that was just too bad for him.

She didn't have enough money for another ticket. She opened her mouth to say as much when Soul came rushing back into the compartment.

"The rail's damaged, so they've got to fix it, and they say we're trapped for the time being."

"How long will we be waiting here?" Maka asked, alarmed.

"They're laying some track down to get us moving again, but they say it will be at least another three hours."

This news was met with groans from Wes and Maka.

"Well, at least we'll have time to look for my ticket, now!" she said, trying to inject some cheerfulness into the compartment.

Wes did not look cheered. He began to protest as Maka and Soul sorted through the multitudes of parcels.

"If you could just–

"The item is still in it's original wrapping–

"I don't think that's–

"Please be careful, Soul, that item is extremely fragile–

"THAT IS A ONE-OF-A-KIND PRICELESS MIDCENTURY RECREATION OF THE SEVENTH DOG OF KING LOUIS XIV! For the love of GOD!"

"Wes, I don't know how to tell you this, but there's no way the chap who sold this to you was telling the truth," Soul finally told him.

"You don't know what you're talking about! Examine the craftsmanship–"

"Says it was made in Bethnel Green, right here at the base–"

Wes paled and reached for the figurine. "Give me that! Where does it say– where…"

His puzzled expression turned to one of ire when Soul began to laugh.

"It's not right to lead me along like that, Soul. My only brother, willfully deceiving me. _What would mother think_ … I need a moment, please."

He stood up and marched out of the compartment, leaving Maka and Soul all alone together.

"That _was_ a bit mean," she told him gently.

"He's being dramatic. I bet he just needed to take a piss." Soul did look guilty, though. "Ever since our mother died, he's been guilt tripping enough for two. Think it's how he likes to honor her memory." He scowled and rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Do you really have five more cartfuls of these," she gestured to the parcels around them, "in the luggage compartment?"

He smirked. "About that many, yeah. He insists on bringing all of them whenever we come to the city. Six months without them is too much, I suppose–"

Wes poked his head into the compartment with an air of urgency. "The ticket inspector is coming!" He stage-whispered. "I'll hold him off as long as I can, but prepare yourselves!"

Maka exchanged a panicked look with Soul. They could hear Wes making small talk with the inspector, his aristocratic silhouette pressed firmly against the compartment door.

Soul was shrugging out of his coat and Maka was scrabbling around on the floor, looking for any trace of her errant ticket. The door started to slide open. "Help me!" she begged, and he responded by pushing her head under the bench and throwing his coat over her. "Stay down!" he told her, and she was inclined to obey, seeing as how she had no wish to walk the rest of the way to London.

It wasn't the most glamorous way to travel, she thought, as she tucked her knees to her chin (or as close as her corset would allow her to), and hoped for the best. Soul swung what must have been his legs out and over her, which she did not particularly appreciate, but would tolerate, under the circumstances.

Maka held her breath, hoping that the ticket inspector had forgotten about her and would leave them all alone now.

No such luck. "Hello, sir," came his gruff voice from above. "Where is your friend? I need to see her ticket, please."

"Oh, she wasn't friend of mine," Soul drawled. "Quite the opposite actually; I'm glad to be rid of her."

"Alright, where has she gone, then?"

Soul hummed thoughtfully. "She left when you asked for our tickets. Then when the train stopped, she said she'd make it on her own, and last I saw her, she was walking along the tracks back to the last station."

"Damn! I've got to catch her!"

"You better hurry– she was pretty fast for someone with such fat ankles."

Maka squawked indignantly from her position under the bench. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The ticket inspector had heard.

"I say, what have you got in there?"

"Ah, this? It's … Old Bertha, my … parrot."

"P-parrot?" Sputtered the ticket inspector.

"Oh, yes! Would you like to see her? She's sleeping now that I've got the cover on, but she's quite lovely when I let her out! Getting on in age, but still strong enough to bite a man's finger off, bless her."

"Bite?"

"She's a biter, alright. We were worried for her health for awhile but she came right round when she got a good look at a sailor with a bushy mustache. She especially loves the mustaches."

The ticket inspector's hand flew to his walrus mustache and he trembled slightly. "Yes well, I think I'll be off, then, got to catch that fare evader, very good, have a nice day, sir…" And with a tip of his hat he slammed the door to the compartment shut. It opened a moment later when Wes came sliding back in.

Wes blinked for a minute as Maka scrambled out from under Soul's legs, and then burst into laughter. "What a pleasant surprise– it's nice to see my brother isn't completely hopeless with the ladies–"

Maka screeched loudly just as Soul hissed at his brother to shut up.

Wes looked completely unapologetic, but Maka was so badly ruffled that she refused Soul's offered hand and stood on her own, brushing her skirts off and blushing furiously.

Wes sat back down, but not without a smile. "Hush now, or the ticket inspector will come to see about the fuss."

Maka let out a loud "humph!" noise and plunked herself back onto the seat beside Soul.

"Speaking of the ticket inspector, what on earth did you say to him?" Wes asked. "He looked like he'd seen a ghost!"

"Just introduced him to Old Bertha," Soul said darkly.

Wes looked confused and Maka had to share a laugh with Soul at the memory of the ticket inspector. It surprised her a bit. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. She was having _fun_. Fun had been a foreign concept for so long.

The station they had left behind held a bitter past and the station they would be reaching in a few hours held an uncertain and likely dark future. But as long as she was on this train, she didn't have anything to worry about– it was like being suspended in time.

"Well, we've got about nine more hours before we reach London…" Soul produced a pack of cards from one of the packages around them and asked Maka if she knew how to play.

She did not, but said she was eager to learn, so Wes dealt while Soul explained to her how to play three-person poker.

"But I– I'm afraid I have nothing to bet with…" She stumbled over the words. She thought she could pass for a comfortably middle class girl for the time being. She had a nice overcoat which she'd spent several months' savings on, but she'd have to sell it once she reached London if she wanted to eat. Funny how fortunes could change.

"That's alright," Soul said smoothly. "We'll think of something."

Maka was glad for this, being competitive by nature and as eager for something to pass the time with as the brothers were.

"Alright. We don't need to play with money. We can use secrets instead…" Wes gave her a roguish smirk and she frowned. She didn't like his smile as much as his brother's. There was something a good deal less innocent about it, and it unnerved her. Soul's teeth may have been intimidating, but she sensed that underneath his unusual exterior, he possessed a soft heart. He may have teased her about her ankles, but he had helped her, a near stranger, without hesitation, when she had been in need.

"What kind of secrets?" she asked suspiciously, and the brothers exchanged a loaded glance.

"You know, things about ourselves, whatever anyone wants to know. One question, instead of a poker chip. So we'll get to know each other as we play."

"Knowledge does make one richer in the most important of ways," Maka agreed solemnly. If they asked anything too personal, she could always lie. Besides, she wanted to know more about these brothers.

Soul groaned. "How can you be so sensible about gambling?"

Wes laughed and produced a notebook, from which he tore a few pages into little scraps. "These will be our chips," he announced.

An attendant came by with tea and Wes ordered enough for them all to share. Maka was grateful, as her stomach had been growling all morning.

They munched on tea sandwiches and Wes won the first round. He collected the pool of "chips" and promptly began dealing for the next round.

Maka had certainly seen card games; she'd practically grown up in the brothel her father frequented, after all. But she'd never played herself. She could see how people got hooked– there was something thrilling about guessing whether your opponents were bluffing or truly had a good hand, and trying to keep your own features from giving anything away.

"How do I keep losing?" she wailed. "What's wrong with my poker face?"

Soul gave her a crooked grin that did something stupid to her insides– stupid, but not altogether unpleasant. "Easy," he drawled, leaning forward to tap her on the side of the head. "You think too hard. I can see you overthinking things. Just… relax and let the chips fall where they may. You'll never get anywhere if you can't keep your thoughts hidden."

"How can I not think? How can I relax? This is a game of strategy!"

"Part of the strategy is pretending you don't care. Even when you do."

She snorted and stole one of his roasted chicken tea sandwiches. "Perhaps I'll just act smug and self-satisfied like some people…"

"Won't be hard, you do it well already."

Wes choked on his tea and Maka glared at them both.

"Just deal the cards."

* * *

Over the next few hours, Soul won most of the rounds, but Wes was close behind him. They claimed that Maka didn't do badly "for her first time," but she felt the sting of defeat. All her wins had been over Wes. She couldn't crack Soul's poker face for the life of her.

She was trying not to be a sore loser over it, but it wasn't easy when she was confronted with Soul's ever-present and incredibly smug grin.

"Gonna cash in your chips? Ladies first."

"Err…" Maka hesitated, wondering what she could ask that would be worth her hard-won poker chips. The brothers looked at her expectantly, so she busied herself with sliding off her gloves and stealing another of the newly arrived sandwiches.

Best to start small, since she didn't know them well at all, and then she could work up to better questions. Yes. That was a good strategy. She swallowed.

"So what brings you to London?" As soon as the question was out of her mouth she cringed, knowing that they would likely ask her the same. She wasn't ready to talk about Mr. Smith yet.

Wes and Soul were unaware of her mortification, of course, so they had begun answering her question. She tuned back in.

" - and since the accident, it's just the two of us and we've just finished settling everything with the estate. My dear friend, a barrister, has been assisting us in this matter, but his latest letter indicates we'll need to be in London for a while while we sort things out."

"That all sounds very complicated." Maka said truthfully.

"Wes, you gave too much away," Soul chastised him.

"Soul, it's hardly fair, we have all the chips. How are we supposed to carry on a conversation?"

"We could always do it the normal way… Without chips." Maka observed wryly.

"Oh, but it's so much more fun this way, isn't it?" asked Wes.

"Alright, our turn. Wes, do you want to ask a question or should I?"

Wes thought for a moment. "I'm eldest, so I'll go first, Brother." He flashed a cheeky grin at his brother who rolled his eyes.

"Fine by me. Get all the boring questions over with so I can spend my chips on good ones."

Maka gulped. What were the _good_ questions?

Wes leaned forward eagerly. "Alright. I'll ask you the same as you asked us. What brings _you_ to London?"

"I'm seeking employment in the city."

"Ah, are you perhaps a dressmaker? A governess? A–"

"No." She tilted her chin defiantly. "I've been working as a ladies' maid, but I am a writer. I am interested in working with the Suffragist publications to gain women the right to vote and hold office."

"Is that so? How fascinating, to have another suffragist in our midst! The barrister friend I mentioned is also interested in the cause of women's suffrage. Perhaps you can call on him sometime."

"Yes, perhaps," she said earnestly. "I don't really know many people in London."

"If you do see him, be sure to mention my name," Wes said, with a wink. Soul sighed, almost imperceptibly.

By the time they pulled into Paddington station, they'd abandoned the game rules almost completely and were enjoying normal conversation. It was too difficult keeping up with the chips, so by the end of it, Soul and Maka dumped the pile into a bag of welsh corgi figurines when Wes wasn't looking.

The three stood up to say their goodbyes.

"Good luck with the suffrage cause, and please don't get arrested. I can't imagine you'd take well to the torture your compatriots are made to endure in jail these days," Wes said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Ask _your_ compatriots to give us the vote and I won't have to," she told him firmly, shaking his hand.

"Thank you for teaching me to play poker," she told Soul. "Goodbye."

"Wait!" he said, and thrust a note into her hand. Written on it, in an untidy scrawl, was an address and the name _Kid Mortis_. "In case you need… um, anything, just give Kid the word."

"Okay," she whispered, feeling her cheeks get hot despite the chill in the air. "Thank you."

"Well, goodbye then," he said stiffly.

* * *

The brothers watched from the window as her small form was drawn into the crowds of Paddington Station, a flickering spot of light swallowed by a sea of darkness.

"I say, what an unusual girl," remarked Wes. "Do you suppose she really had never played poker before?"

Soul turned to his brother. "You're surprised she was able to beat you," he remarked flatly.

"Well, yes, I am. Even if it was only the few times."

"She seems to be able to see things in people. The way she reacted when you kissed her hand– I wouldn't be surprised if she were a good judge of character."

"Ah, you saw that, did you?" cried Wes. "You wound me, Soul. Have you no respect for your older brother?"

"Quite the opposite, Wes. And you know that. But then I am your brother, not a young woman you've met on the train."

"Thank goodness, I suppose, that most people are not as perceptive as Miss– oh, dear, what did she say her name was, again?"

"She never did…"

"Oh, what a pity," Wes remarked, but it was in an offhand sort of way, for now he was busy rewrapping the Dalmatian figurine and preparing the packages for the next stop, which would be theirs.

"Yes…" Soul said rather more fervently. He slouched against the seat, slid his fingers into his pockets, and paused.

There was one last piece of paper in his pocket. He brought it out, sliding it between his thumb and forefinger, and thought of throwing it in the welsh corgi package where they'd put the rest of the unused chips.

But something made him hesitate.

"Come on, Soul, the train's stopping now."

He slid the paper back into his pocket as he followed his brother off the train. No one said you could wish on makeshift poker chips, but no one said you couldn't, either, and so he paused and sent a little wish into the universe that the girl connected to the chip would meet with fortune. He couldn't make it more specific than that, not even knowing her name, but a small, foolish part of him still hoped it would find her, wherever she was.


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings for Ch 2: Mentions of Giriko / implied sexual harassment, angsting, brothel scene, non-OSHA compliant workspaces, anti-sex worker comments from random passersby, mentions of serial killers... wow this is getting dark, I'm sorry. Enjoy!

* * *

Maka's old neighborhood of Marylebone wasn't far from the train station, but once she'd gotten there, an old neighbor told her that her father had moved last year and was now residing in the considerably poorer district of Bethnel Green.

Her good spirits, heightened by the Evans brothers on the train, sank again at this news. Even if she didn't know his new address, she had a feeling she knew _exactly_ where to find him and ask. She was only glad she hadn't sold her coat yet, because it was going to be a cold walk on foot.

A long walk later saw Maka at the entrance to a brothel, her second home during childhood, and her father's favorite place in the world.

"Makaaaaaaaaaaa!" Came a riotous mewl from the resident Madame at Chupacabra's, Miss Blair Katz. The purple-haired beauty rushed for the younger woman, wrapping her in a hug that was eighty percent bosom and twenty percent suffocation. As Maka tried to find oxygen in the pillows of Blair's improbably large breasts, Blair rubbed her cheek on the top of Maka's head and sighed happily.

"We've missed you so much, Kitten!"

Maka felt tears welling in her eyes; and she'd been so _good_! Up until now, she hadn't shed a single tear, not even when Gerrick Smith had begun to spend too much time gazing hungrily at her, not even when Medice Smith had screamed at her, sent her packing, cast her out into a cold world with nowhere to go. She'd been strong on the whole train ride to London. But now, in Blair's embrace, she felt herself beginning to fall apart.

Was it the semblance of safety, of family and comfort and permanence that had her feeling so emotional? That must be it. And Maka hated herself for it, for being so soft and so silly. Nice as Blair was, Blair wasn't her mother. Maka had no home, and the only family she currently had was upstairs, his lusty carousing loud enough for all the street to hear.

So there was no reason for tears. She gently pulled away from Blair's embrace and asked to see her Papa.

"Of course! Blair will get the key, and then we will go upstairs to find your Papa!" The Madame snapped elegantly manicured fingers at one of the younger women, who scurried off. This was a familiar system to Maka, devised to give patrons warning when their families came to collect them. She had been too young to have memories of them doing this to her mama, but Maka could imagine the way her mama's eyes had probably cooled, hardened, as she waited time and time again for the most recent Madame to get the key, for Spirit to pull his pants up, stumble down the stairs, and come up with some half-arsed story for why he was here, _again_.

When the girl finally returned (after warning Spirit, no doubt), Maka joined Blair as she began to ascend the rickety staircase to the upper floors. She didn't need to follow Blair– she knew her way around.

After her mama had left, this brothel and surrounding shops had become the closest thing she had to a home… Spirit often left her here while he went out to work. She'd carried change between Chupacabra's and the shops on the block and played with the street sweepers and other working children of the neighborhood. But best of all, two doors down from the brothel, there had been a bookseller. He used to let her come over and spend her days reading, in exchange for tidying the shop and running messages to the building manager. She'd read as much as she could, for she was ambitious. Eventually, she'd been hired on as a maid in the Smith household, but she had bigger plans than that. She'd saved every penny of her earnings for subscriptions to digests and literary journals. The Englishwoman, Suffrage Atelier, British Freewomen, Common Cause…

They had reached the corridor at the top of the first staircase, and Maka could hear various clients and workers in the rooms around them. She was relieved when the room they stopped at appeared to be silent. Blair raised a hand and rapped at the door.

"Maka darling, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The object of her musings came tripping to the door, wrapped only in a stained bedsheet and looking utterly confused.

"Papa, it's your fault for not asking her name… And I'm sure she'd rather be referred to as a 'who' than a 'what'."

He still appeared confused, but then a goofy grin spread across his face as he looked behind her.

"Blaiiiiiiiirrrrrrr! Have you come for another round? Insatiable, aren't you?" He let out a horrible noise, like a tiger growling, and clawed at the air. Blair giggled.

Maka nearly gagged. "Papa! How much have you had to drink?"

His eyes struggled to focus on her for a moment. "Jus' a s-sm… Jus' a smidge, m'dear," he finally hiccupped.

She turned around to face Blair. "I can't take him out like this," she hissed. "We'd never make it home!"

Blair gave her an odd look for a moment, then shrugged. "Blair needs to go back downstairs…" She inched further and further away and finally turned and _ran_ down the stairs.

Unsure what to make of Blair's strange behavior, Maka turned to her father instead. "Papa, do you remember where you live? I need someplace to stay tonight."

"A man never forgets where he lives my dear– and I will always live wherever my heart, my heart…." he trailed off uncertainly. Maka rolled her eyes.

"Where do you live, Papa? Please just tell me so I can leave."

"Nooooooo! Don't leave Papa! Papa loves you and Mama the mooooooost!"

The words were like a slap to her face.

"You're disgusting. How dare you say you love her– how dare you say you love me? After all you've done?"

"Papa loves you, Maka– I love you– Makaaaaaaaaaaaahaaahahaa," he began to sob her name, collapsing in a drunken pile on the filthy bed he had previously occupied.

Maka crossed the room and shook him by the shoulders. "Where do you bloody live!?"

Spirit sobered for a moment, his blue eyes clearing and a rather shrewd, sorrowful look breaking through before they clouded over again. "Maka, I'm so sorry…."

"Where do you live, you miserable lech?"

"Papa lives here now," he choked.

She froze. "What."

"Hahaa, they let me stay here as long as I keep the customers from getting too– getting too rudey. No– rowdy. _Rowdy_!"

"What happened to our old house in Marylebone? You didn't sell it for a new one here in Bethnel Green? Did you lose our _house_?" Maka nearly screamed.

Spirit opened his hands and giggled helplessly.

Maka balled her hands into fists at her sides and counted down from one hundred. She was going to injure her father if she didn't walk away, right now. She'd sleep in the street, she'd hail a cab and find some place hidden to lay her coat and rest for a couple hours– she would be damned if she stayed here, in this room, with her father, tonight.

She was walking to the door to leave when she heard several loud noises coming through the open window. She crossed the room to look out.

A trio of young men had assembled and were smashing bottles against the bricks of the brothel entrance. "Go away! We're closed!" Blair yelled.

"Don't care! Come out and give us what we want!" Screamed one of the boys. His friends whooped and one of them threw a bottle at Blair's head. She ducked and closed the shutters. Maka did the same.

Apparently she wasn't going out there alone tonight after all.

She looked over to see if her father was sobering up, if perhaps she could use him as some sort of human shield to get her past these terrible boys, but he was laying across the mattress, snoring happily and utterly oblivious to her agony.

It was going to be a long night indeed.

* * *

Greeting the dawn from the damp alley behind Chupacabra's was not an experience which put Maka in a pleasant mood. She'd barely left the purple clutches of the brothel before she felt her exhaustion catching up to her.

Maka slid down the side of the alcove to sit in a rather cramped bundle on the dirty stoop of a public house. Her thin frame was wracked with sobs, and she could feel herself coming apart. After so long keeping things in, her anguish was making itself loudly known. She hadn't slept a wink, refusing to sit on the filthy bed or the even filthier floor of her father's room, and had settled for pacing around the entire night, worrying about her future.

It was cold in the shadows, so she drew her knees to her chest, feeling the bones in her corset creak and groan with her movement. Her body was willowy enough that she could usually forgo such shaping undergarments in favor of a much simpler (and infinitely more comfortable) chemise, so she guessed she might as well try to sell her corset, too. She had nice enough hair, almost long enough for a wig. What else did she have to sell before she committed herself to sweating in a garment factory or living at the poorhouse?

She allowed herself a few minutes to have a good cry, drawing out her mama's handkerchief and pressing it sloppily against her mouth to muffle her sobs.

Eventually, it was the handkerchief which gave her a purpose and a sense of calm– how must her mother have felt, striking out alone, divorced, and without title or land? Surely, if her mother was capable of rising to the occasion with grace and virtue, Maka was too. She was not her father– at the age of twenty, she'd barely allowed any man to kiss the top of her hand, let alone anywhere else.

Sitting and crying, hiding in a shadowy alcove, this was the sort of business she could count on her father to conduct– and it was most unbecoming of a lady of the twentieth century, indeed! She was a woman of vast intellectual means, of endless imagination and of extensive knowledge– she'd wager she had read more across various fields than many scholars– and there was _worth_ in that. Even if most of British society could not see the worth, she could, and it was this knowledge which allowed her to stand up again and face the day.

There were women in jail merely for speaking out against unfair laws which prevented females from voting and holding office. She'd kept up, faithfully, with the travails of the movement's leaders– as they endured hunger strikes, force-feeding, continued imprisonment, and public ridicule– and if they could do it, by God, so could she! In solidarity with the downtrodden, she would not be trampled by these adversities. How could she claim to be a supporter, how could she ever look one of these women in the eye, someday, if she allowed herself to be stopped by lack of gainful employment and the loss of her childhood home? The very thought was laughable.

She bolstered her confidence with such thoughts, even as she knew her eyes were puffy and swollen, her hair a disheveled mess, and her stomach woefully empty.

She would face the worst that London had to throw at her– and surely she could bear whatever was to come.

* * *

After her cry, creeping out from under the shadow of the brothel and out onto the open street felt like waking from a nightmare. The smells and sounds and sights of her childhood, of her life before she had left to work in the Smith household, healed some of her wounds. Hansom cabs raced by, laundry women stood outside and flirted with dustmen. Boys selling newspapers drifted past, and Maka followed her nose to the nearest cafe for breakfast.

She settled in with a croissant and some tea and opened the newspaper which a previous customer had left on the table. Even though part of the paper was missing, she was so eager to read something she thought she might have been grateful for even a religious pamphlet at this point.

The classified adverts for employment were rather depressing– factory work, all of it. Maka knew that these jobs were really poorly disguised indentured servitude. Workers in factories sweated from dawn til dusk and barely saw enough earnings to pay for a single meal. And the factories were dangerous– especially for women. She thought of Mr. Smith and shivered.

Her eyes traveled to the editorial section, scanning an article about last week's parade for women's suffrage and the recent antics of the National Unions for Women's Suffrage Societies. Unfortunately, the cartoonist had drawn a rather unflattering portrait of suffragist leader Emmeline Pankhurst leading women into trampling a man into the dirt beneath their heels. The columnist was of the opinion that for one to be a feminist, one must be unmarried, unhappy, and unattractive.

Maka snorted and finished her tea. There was a reason she'd never subscribed to this paper. She stood and tossed it in the nearest bin.

Having found nothing of value in the paper, she resolved to return to Chupacabra's and ask Blair if there was cleaning or some such work to be done (heaven knew the place needed it), so she could buy something to eat before looking for another job and place to stay.

But as she approached, there seemed to be some kind of disturbance on the block. A number of passersby, neighbors, and shopkeepers were pressing against a circle of constables, who were surrounding Chupacabra's. Maka fought her way through the crowd, picking up snippets of gossip as she elbowed and stomped.

"Sonsen Jay, or so I've heard–"

"–utter nonsense, he only kills rich women!"

"Yes, hiding in the brothel, wonder if they'll arrest the whores too?–"

Good Lord, if London's most wanted and mysterious serial murderer– a man known only as Sonsen Jay– had been harbored at Chupacabra's, she shuddered to think of what might've happened to alert the authorities to his presence. She only hoped no one had been hurt.

When she finally fought her way to the front of the throng, she was astonished by what she saw– her father was being escorted by a bevy of policemen, howling for a lawyer.

Loath as she was to admit to caring for a man like her Papa, he was still her father, and he was all she had left in the world. Once the shock wore off and the crowd dispersed, Maka tried desperately to think of how she could save him from a terrible fate.

What did she know about Sonsen Jay? His modus operandi was to kill wealthy, elderly widows, and vanish without a trace. Witnesses to the crime all said the same thing– he appeared with a bag over his head. She didn't know how he had come to have his name, but she knew that his physical description was close enough to match her father's. The public was demanding a stop to the killings, and police were desperate for a lead. The press would likely sensationalize the arrest and dig up whatever they could in order to pin the blame on the suspect.

Her Papa would need a lawyer, and a good one.

Maka's hand tightened around the note in her pocket, the one given to her by Soul Eaton as she left the train.

Could she trust this Kid Mortis? She didn't know, but right now, he was her only hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings for Ch 3: Rampant POV changes and oppression of the working class? but really, google image search "Bethnal Green 1800s" and you'll see what I mean. Enjoy!

* * *

Wes watched with amusement as Kid sorted through stacks of errant papers and the debris which littered the floor. Their lust-fueled activities of the past half-hour had displaced much of the usually immaculate chamber– Wes had thought nothing of clearing Kid's desk with a sweep of his arm, but now, of course, Kid had returned to his senses sufficiently to find the disorder unbearable and was set on putting it back to rights.

While Kid unfurled a tape measure to ensure that his twin paperweights were equidistant from one another, Wes crossed the room to his briefcase and drew forth the papers contained therein.

"If I had known I'd be greeted with so much enthusiasm, I would have delayed Soul a little longer," said Wes.

Kid smirked. "Normally, I would say it is unfair that you sent him ahead to secure your room at the Crescent Moon, but I have to admit that I've missed our time alone together far too much to be sorry. Will he be joining us?"

"As a matter of fact, he will. Believe it or not, I had a practical reason for coming here today," Wes answered.

"Mmm."

Wes cleared his throat. "It's this matter of the inheritance, you know."

Kid stood and straightened his lapel. "And I've given you my recommendations, Wes. What do I need to know before Soul arrives?"

Now that Wes was satisfied he finally had the barrister's attention, he sunk dramatically into the setee placed along the far wall facing the desk. He covered his face with the papers and groaned. "Only the usual– It's _Soul_ , after all."

Kid raised an eyebrow and Wes left the papers on his head and flung an arm out. "Skulks around the house, ruining his posture, frightening the servants. He's never cared for our family's legacy, has little love for society, Kid, and I fear he shall be ruined! Oh, this is all so unfair– why should I have all the inheritance when there is plenty to share?"

Kid ran a hand through his hair wearily. "I've explained the reasons to you in detail, Wes. Must I go over it again?"

"No, no. I know– Mother and Father left everything to me and none for Soul."

"Indeed."

"But surely, a _barrister_ as talented as _you_ can find some loophole, some way of granting Soul independent control of his rightful half without having to beg money from me or rely upon my charity for the rest of our lives?"

Kid gave him what was meant to be a stern look. "Flattery will get you everywhere with me– But I am afraid that the law is quite clear on this matter. It is inevitable, Wes. Your mother's will bequeathed all the inheritance to the first son, and you, being the eldest, can hardly object to the matter if Soul does not."

"Yes, yes, but what will he _do_?" Wes sat up in his agitation, and the papers over his face drifted to the floor like ruffled feathers. Kid rushed to pick them up.

"We've been cared for all our lives, you know we have. We aren't like you. We've never had to work for a thing– Soul doesn't know how to do for himself– as he shouldn't. He's a gentleman!"

"Have confidence in your brother– has he considered my advice to marry?"

"Of course, of course. But Kid, have you seen the boy? He's antisocial, bitter, caustic, even hostile around people he doesn't know. Hardly the attitude to make friends. And beyond it all, he hasn't got a lick of money to his name!"

Kid gave him a shrewd look. "Do not give up yet. I am certain a woman can be won– it is all a matter of knowing how to woo. My time in court has taught me this– no amount of money or lack thereof can make a whit of difference in the face of a brilliant strategy."

"I do hope you are right. But I say, money makes an awfully big difference, doesn't it– take this odd girl we met on the train yesterday, for instance. Were she given money and proper training, she could be the belle of any ball, but as it is, she's stuck scraping for lowly jobs to get by. And that ugly skirt, my god. What I wouldn't have given to burn that outfit and start fresh!"

"I cannot discern you, Wes. I fear I shall never understand your inclinations for the fairer sex."

"Please don't insult me by implying I had any of _that_ sort of interest in her. You know my eyes are only for you." Wes gave him a crooked smile, which Kid returned.

"I know you, Wes. If you had a chance, you'd make her your pet then turn her out the minute you got bored with her, wouldn't you?"

"And you mean to tell me you aren't doing the same with Liz? My God, you've got half of London thinking you've taken her as a mistress and the other half thinking you've been blackmailed into allowing her and her sister to set up camp in your parlor!"

"It keeps their eyes averted from other potential scandals, as you well know. Only imagine how tongues would wag if they knew the truth of our dalliances."

"I'm a dalliance now, am I?" Wes asked with mock hurt.

"You seem determined to be, anyhow," Kid answered with a sigh. "Heaven knows why you continue to risk your reputation to see me like this."

"The same reason you let me, I suppose. Will I be seeing you at Lady Arachne's Ball?"

"Of course. I imagine you'll be attending with Soul?"

"Naturally. I've got to be his moral support. He hates social gatherings." Wes paused thoughtfully and stroked his chin. "Perhaps he could make a living as an undertaker... It's beneath his station, but he might enjoy the solitude."

Kid chuckled. "Wes, be serious. A gentleman like Soul cannot _work_."

Wes still looked thoughtful, and Kid tried to change the subject. "What about that girl that you were so taken with on the train? Do you think she'll find employment?"

"Kid, I've no doubt that with a change of clothes and some refining, she could give _you_ a run for your money. But as she is now? Her chances of success might be little better than Soul's."

"Hmmm." Kid nodded and went back to arranging the sealing wax and inkwells in a neat little row along the back of his desk. His eyes found a letter that had been delivered by post that morning. "That reminds me, Wes– I have a message for you from Lady Tsubaki."

"Oh, yes?"

"She says she received word from her family in Japan. She won't be able to offer you that return on your investment until she becomes heir. Some sort of power struggle with her brother, apparently."

"Oh, hell. Now what?"

"Not to worry. She's arranged for your stay to be extended indefinitely– your room at the Crescent Moon will be let to no one until she has paid in full. And she humbly asks you to consider what further assistance she may be, as this matter has been greatly distressing for her entire family."

"No, I understand. Her brother is a real piece of work. I don't mind waiting a bit– and the room at her family's hotel is much appreciated. She needn't do more."

Kid chuckled softly. "Wes, you misunderstand. The Nakatsukasas are proud. It would be an insult if you did _not_ think of something she can give you in exchange."

"If I thought she'd part with that fabulous chain scythe she keeps on her mantle, I'd already have it by now."

"Perhaps you could ask her to take in that train girl and give her a better sense of fashion."

They shared a laugh and some glasses of port, and once Soul arrived, they began going over the final details of the Evans estate, expecting never to think of the peculiar girl on the train and her fortune again.

But fortune has a way of making us fools, as they soon discovered, when Maka Albarn turned up at the DWMA a while later, looking more frantic and harried than ever.

* * *

When Maka felt the first raindrop, she quickened her gait, anxious to hasten her journey. But then the second raindrop was followed by a torrential downpour, and she decided fate was conspiring against her. There was nothing for it but to run– she had nothing to go back to, and she was likely to catch pneumonia if she lingered in the cold. The intimidating figure of what must be the DWMA building loomed in her eyeline as she ran across the street, and she didn't pause to catch her breath until she was under its elegant awning.

When she finally stopped gasping for breath, she took in the building before her.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but this wasn't it– the DWMA was splendidly built, all sleek white marble and glittering onyx. It might have been ostentatious, but it had a severity to it that kept it from veering into garishness. The whole estate was enclosed by an iron fence, which was enough to give pause to the most steadfast of hearts. The pointed spokes of the fence were razor-sharp, and the gate was emblazoned with the likeness of a skull. In the yard, crows pecked mournfully at soggy worms; the rain had brought all manner of creatures out into the open, and the yard was swiftly becoming nature's battlefield.

She glanced at the address just to be sure she really had the right place.

 _DWM & Associates_

 _42nd and Grimm St, Suite 564_

And there was a plaque for the man she was seeking.

 _Mr. Dean Theobald "Kid" Mortis, Jr._

Well, no doubt about it. This was the place.

Nothing left but to ring the bell.

The world seemed to be holding its breath as she reached out and pressed the button.

* * *

"And so you see, there is absolutely no way to bequeath the holdings of the family to Soul. He will simply have to live off your gracious charity, Wes."

Soul groaned and buried his face in his hands. Wes glanced at him and frowned.

"Of course, there is another option… Soul?"

Soul groaned again.

"I know you are averse to the idea but if you were to marry– you could gain financial independence. In fact, it would be an excellent way to bring new wealth into the family– while the Evans estate may have a reputable title, there is no shame in marrying newer money with more, shall we say, _liquid_ assets."

"I just don't see why you're so eager to marry me off," Soul complained.

Wes shook his head almost imperceptibly at Kid. The barrister caught it and sighed.

"It's just something to consider. Is there anyone– anyone at all– you could bring yourself to consider?"

Wes piped up. "Miss Anya Hepburn, for example, is quite rich and also very eligible–"

Soul grunted, his face still buried in his hands. "Yeah, I'll ask _Anya Hepburn_ to marry me. And maybe Hell will freeze over–"

Wes clapped his hands delightedly. "Splendid!" He exclaimed. "I am so pleased with your decision, Soul. What good taste you have. She's the daughter of a railway tycoon– you could certainly do worse. Of course she has no title and her family are nobodies, but these days that hardly matters, does it? She's so blessedly rich!"

"Wes," Kid cautioned. "You do know what they call her? Anya Hepburn is the London Frost. She won't look twice at a man if he isn't already engaged or on another's arm."

"So? We'll spread a rumor that Soul's involved with someone– perhaps that horrible Baroness von Diehl–"

Both Soul and Kid overreacted. Soul began to cough loudly and Kid sputtered out, "Wes, she's the only one less likely than Miss Hepburn to be involved with Soul–"

"I know, which is what makes it such juicy gossip, don't you think?" A sinister smile played around Wes' lips and he stretched his body with an eerie, feline grace.

"I hate you," Soul muttered darkly.

Wes patted his younger brother's head indulgently. "There, there, Little Brother. Don't say things you don't m–"

That was when they heard the crash.

"What was that?" Soul asked, his reflexes more attuned than anyone would give him credit for. Wes and Kid had barely jumped, but Soul was already wrenching open the door.

"Not so fast!" Kid called him back. "You two wait here while I sort out whatever's going on."

He cast a meaningful glance at Wes. "I am certain there are things you two need to discuss. _Privately_. Please make the most of this time."

Wes examined his fingernails, looking rather guilty, and Soul raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What's going on–?"

Kid had already closed the door behind him and was making his way to the staircase, so he did not hear Soul verbalize his query.

Outside his soundproofed chambers, the disturbance in the foyer was much more alarming, and he could hear it raging in full force.

An impatient tap on the floor sent Kid's suspicions skyrocketing, and when he heard the accompanying phrase,"Fool!" his fears were confirmed.

For a moment Kid considered retreating back into his chambers until the confrontation was over. He wasn't strong enough to deal with this alone– and Patty and Liz were out shopping and nowhere close enough to mitigate the presence of Lord Calliber.

The aging Minister of Parliament was addressing someone as unamused with his antics as anyone Kid had ever seen.

"Fool?! Though I may be poor, I am no fool. You wouldn't speak to a man this way, I am assured of it. How dare you condescend to me? Truly, am I any less deserving of dignity and respect than anyone here?"

"F–"

"Watch it, or I'll take your cane and shove it right up your–"

Kid cleared his throat loudly from the top of the stairs.

From the foyer, a young woman snapped to attention, while Lord Calliber continued to prattle about the legends of his youth.

Kid was busy scanning the room, desperate to find the source of the crashing noise. He found it when the woman's eyes slid guiltily to a pile of broken china.

The young barrister sagged on the steps and said a gentle prayer that they would arrange him symmetrically in his coffin, as he slowly fell down the entire flight of stairs. Once he arrived at the landing, he raised his head weakly.

The girl squeaked in relief, clearly thinking he had died.

"Wha-what has– my– that vase–"

"I'm very sorry," she said earnestly, her voice hushed and eyes wide. "It was an accident, I'm so sorry."

Kid was breaking out in a cold sweat. His surroundings seemed to swim before his eyes, and it was comforting to note that for a while there seemed to be two of _everything_ , although this was probably merely a sign that his consciousness was receding.

"We'll just… throw it in the… garbage…" he mumbled brokenly from the landing, struggling to his knees. His hands were grasping futilely at the railing above him, and he rested his head on a step, fascinated by the tilting shapes of the furniture, only just visible through his half-closed eyes.

"Sir, are you– alright?" the girl was walking toward him now, and no, he didn't want her anywhere near him.

Her very presence in his chambers was cause for discomfort. He did not like anything to be out of place, and she– _she_ certainly was out of place. How she had been admitted in the first place was a mystery. He was going to have a little chat with the clerks about their security measures, straight away.

"No, no, stay back!" he yelped as she approached.

"I'm only trying to help! You fell down a flight of stairs! I'm so, so sorry–"

"Get out. You have defiled my father's establishment in the most shameful of ways. Future generations of the Mortis family will feel its effects and long-gone ancestors are rolling in their graves now because of what you have done."

He rolled around a little more on the floor for good measure, and after a while he assumed the guest would leave, as people generally did when he had one of his fits.

"This is all because of the vase?"

Kid groaned weakly as he tried to drag himself to a standing position.

"Insolent wretch– yes, the vase, the vase! Do you not see how delicate the balance of this entire room was? How will I ever be able to conduct my work in this space now?"

His question was rhetorical so he was not expecting to hear her take a deep breath.

"Sir, I'm very sorry about the vase. But I came to you today to enquire about a matter that is incredibly important. I hope you'll forgive my trespassing and my harried appearance, but you see, it's my father, he's been detained– they say he is the serial murderer, Sonsen Jay!"

Kid froze in the midst of his wallowing. "Sonsen Jay? Have they caught him?"

The girl shook her head. "That's what I'm telling you– they've got the wrong man! My father couldn't have committed those murders."

"Your _father_ has been arrested and charged with serial murder." He perked up like a bolt of lightning had hit him. It was an incredulous statement, as though he had assumed she couldn't have had a father.

She glared at him. "Yes, that's what I've been saying!"

"Well then, I am very sorry to hear that."

"Well, I'm not! I'm downright _livid_ to see an innocent man hang in the gallows for a crime he didn't commit, and you ought to be as well!"

"Why's that?"

"You are a man of the law!"

"Madam, plenty of people who _seem_ innocent do, in fact, commit crimes." Now on his feet, he began to dust off his suit. The carpets were cleaned every day, but one could never be too careful… Damn it all, this girl needed to go at _once_! She was like a thrashing insect in an otherwise unmarred and beautifully woven spider web– and he wished she had never walked through these doors.

"They have no evidence against him, and there are nearly a half dozen witnesses who could provide a legitimate alibi–"

"Well then, if he is indeed innocent, there will be nothing to worry about. I am sure this news is distressing to you, but try to have some faith in the legal system," Kid said smoothly, striding to the door and pulling it open with a flourish. "Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have some private business to attend to and I'm afraid I must ask you to leave at once."

She actually stomped her foot in frustration. "I will not!"

"Madam, do not mistake me for an uncaring man. I urge you to contact a solicitor, and have him come to me on your behalf if he deems it necessary. Until then, I am afraid there's nothing I can do for you. As you may be aware, barristers do not contract directly with the public, so I am afraid our business here today is done."

"But I have no money! A good solicitor would cost me a fortune! My father's life is at stake!"

"Madam. I have all the sympathy in the world for your cause. Were I in your shoes, I should be just as anxious for justice as you appear to be. However, in all matters of life, there must be balance. If I were to engage with a judge on your behalf, there would be a gravely unbalanced state of affairs, would there not? How indeed can I justify assisting you when no benefit shall come to me? I would be willing to offer you a steep discount, even. But for no money at all, to engage myself in what is sure to be a tiresome and trying court battle; well, it does not stand. I am sorry."

"But– the Eaton brothers said you could help–"

"So you came in here and broke a priceless Ming dynasty vase?! And now you have the nerve to ask me to represent you free of charge? As if half of London hasn't tried to capitalize on my friendship with the Viscount to blackmail me into representing them?" _How dare she invoke Wes' name to help her cause!_ Every person who tried that tactic was swiftly turned away. It was a firm policy Kid had instituted, although Wes was unaware. If Wes found out, he would surely worry about the cost to Kid's reputation and business, and cut things off.

The girl was shaking. "Blackmail? I have no idea what you're talking about! And it's not for me, it's my father! You're really at peace with the idea of an innocent man hanging and a murderer walking free? You claim to be a man who loves justice; yet where is the justice in this? The poor will hang for some other man's crimes– the detective responsible will probably be promoted, and you and your fellow men in law will pat yourselves on the back and congratulate yourselves on another job well done, another case of justice served."

She moved to follow Kid to the door, but she was not through with him yet. "You said that if you found yourself in my shoes, you would be as anxious for justice as I am. But there's the truth, isn't it– you are _not_ in my shoes, nor will you _ever_ be." She could sense eyes upon her, and vaguely part of her registered that a small crowd was forming to witness her diatribe, but she could not find it in herself to care. If they escorted her out kicking and screaming she would not find herself bothered– yet she would not leave before she'd said her piece.

"I see now I shouldn't have bothered coming here– the rich care much more for their precious china than they do for the lives of real, breathing people around them!"

Lord Calliber burst back onto the scene, swinging his cane.

"When one is trying to dance the Quadrille, it is tradition to ask the youngest member to stand outside with a candle and chant the name of the losing horse from the last race–"

"Will you shut up?!" The girl screeched loudly, and Kid had to agree with the young lady on this– Lord Calliber was really quite irritating under the best of circumstances, and his presence during this dispute was certainly unwelcome.

"Fool– my legend dates back to the nineteenth century! I was born on a country farm in 1852, and it was a beautiful day in the city. I remember the roses were blooming because it was December–"

"What has that got to do with anything?!"

"Impertinent girl! Quite impertinent, I should say, to show up here, demanding an audience with a barrister for– why was it you came? Some small disagreement with a merchant perhaps? You should go home to your husband and leave the legal matters to the men, Foo–"

The rest of his sentence was cut off because he was struck dumb by the sheer force of a weighty legal tome descending upon his skull.

The girl stood panting, book still in hand, staring hard at her victim, who lay at her feet. "I am _so_ tired," she blew hair out of her face and huffed. "I am so tired of men telling me what to do."

This disturbing woman gestured to the finery surrounding them. "I see only people too cowardly to gaze at their own reflections in the mirror... The poor work and live and die in the streets, while you drink port and grumble about the state of the union."

She prodded Mr. Calliber's form with a steel edged boot. "I'm sure you moan that we miserable wretches are not deserving of the shilling you throw to us to shine your shoes, yet you collectively bleed us dry for our labor and give us nothing in return! One day, you'll be forced to come to terms with the travesty you have helped to orchestrate. And yet, you deign to call _me_ the fool."

There was a pause, and then, from somewhere far above her, a person began to clap. She whirled around, and Kid groaned. Just his luck that this newest blackmailer had to come face to face with none other than Wes himself.

* * *

"Bravo, Miss- err… Miss Train Girl!" Wes called delightedly, leaning over the railing of the top floor which overlooked the foyer. "See, what an exciting morning it has been after all, Soul, didn't I tell you?"

"You?" Maka's jaw dropped. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you," Soul said, joining his brother at the railing. "Is everything alright?"

"Wait a minute– This is Train Girl? The one who beat Wes at poker?" The barrister asked faintly. "Oh, God. You really did refer her to me…"

Wes was babbling on. "I adored your little speech. I dare say, you have the charm and passion of a preacher– without the deadly dull that seems to plague our good clergy."

Maka bristled visibly. Soul looked almost fearful, as if he could sense that she was a second away from striking his brother.

"You– you–" she gritted out from between clenched teeth.

"Wes, you're being an ass," Soul told him quietly, stepping in front of him very slightly as if to protect him from an impending blow. His instincts were good, because Maka's hands were already balling into fists. She didn't know how long it would take her to dash up the stairs and strike him, but she was fairly certain that she could do it before either of the gentlemen had time to react.

"Why Soul!" laughed Wes, "I am sure I have been nothing but a perfect gentleman to Miss Train Girl. Might I ask, what was the cause of this little _coup d'etat_?"

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here. And my name is not _Miss Train Girl_!" Maka screamed.

There was a brief silence.

"Well, what is it? We've been dying to know," Soul asked.

"Hhmmnph!" was all Maka could deign to reply. "If you will excuse me, I must leave. This was a waste of my time, and I must continue my search elsewhere."

"You're leaving?" Soul asked. "Where will you go? Why did you come?"

Mr. Mortis stepped up then. "The Good Miss Train Girl believes that her father has been unjustly accused of a string of serial murders he could not possibly have committed, or so she says."

"The Good Mr. Barrister," she intoned, "can help no one but himself, it seems. Generosity is not to be found in his person. And I'll not beg a man to do his job, nor to do right. I have no investment in the state of anyone's soul here. I merely want to prevent the hanging of an innocent man."

Wes looked serious then. "Kid, whatever does she mean? Have you refused to help?"

Kid sighed and adjusted his lapel. "Wes, I cannot get involved in lay matters. My position forbids it– the law forbids it. I counseled her to seek advice from a solicitor before coming to me. And she broke my vase!"

"This is hardly a regular lay matter! This is the trial of the century! And, I might add," her voice got deadly low and everyone leaned in to hear her better, "if my father is convicted, and the _real_ Sonsen Jay goes free, more murders will occur. Do you want that on your conscience, barrister?"

"That's quite enough, Miss–err… Miss. If you do not leave at once, I shall have to call a constable to have you removed."

"Wait, Kid! The lady has a point– only imagine the scandal if an innocent man is sent to the gallows and Sonsen Jay strikes again? And you simply can't afford the stress– you have enough trouble sleeping as it is."

There was a pregnant pause among the group. Something seemed off– Wes was blushing furiously, Soul was rolling his eyes again, and Kid had gone pale and looked as though he might faint.

"Yes, erm, I imagine _Liz_ has told you all about my _insomnia_ , heh."

"Quite right, quite right," Wes choked. "In any case, how can we help?"

Maka couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. A moment ago, she'd been about to take these insipid, foppish gentlemen out of print, and now they were proposing to help her? It only further demonstrated that the upper classes were made of folly and self-indulgence.

Regardless, she was hardly in a position to protest– she would suffer any number of slights to her dignity if only to save her Papa's life. He may have been inconstant and infuriating, but he was the only true family, the only thing at all really, that she had, and she'd be damned if she lost him, too.

"Convince him," she pointed to Kid, "to take on my father's case."

Kid's eyebrows disappeared into his peculiar crown of hair, and Maka saw her chance. "I'll do anything– I am a fast learner, I can file, write letters, organize, clean, whatever you need–"

"A fast learner, you say?" Wes' eyes were sparkling dangerously. Kid and Soul exchanged nervous glances.

"The fastest," she promised him. "I've gotten top marks in every year of school, and I worked for three years as a maid for a family in the countryside. I'm fond of Shakespeare, Poe, Keats–"

"My, you drive a hard bargain! But I believe we will be able to work something out…" Wes advanced down the corridor, looking positively mad.

Kid was backing away, shaking his head furiously. "I won't do it, Wes, please don't make me do it," he begged.

"Nonsense!" Wes chirped. "Kid, I shall pay for all the lady's expenses. Money is no object. Miss Tra- er, this young lady will become my newest– and proudest– achievement yet."

"Errr?" Maka sputtered slightly. _What exactly did they mean to do with her?_ Suddenly she felt very nervous indeed.

Wes picked up a fireplace poker and clutched it happily to his chest. His appearance gave no one in the room any indication as to his sanity. "She," he pointed the poker at Maka, "will attend Lady Arachne's Ball as a visiting Duchess! And she shall have eyes," He swung the poker around, the tip now pointing towards his horrified-looking brother, "for no other than Soul!"

"No," everyone said in chorus.

"Yes," Wes said. " _Yes_."


	4. Chapter 4

"You cannot be serious! This is your plan to make Miss Hepburn fall for your brother? By making her jealous of this _wet alley-cat_?" Kid cried. "Please think about this, Wes! You cannot simply take on a street urchin and parade her around London as if she were your pet!"

There came a great many cries at once:

"–Who is Miss Hepburn? And who are you calling an alley-cat?"

"–This is nonsense, Wes!"

"–I am certain this will work!"

"–Wes, I don't need your help!"

"Silence!" called out Kid, with a voice of authority, and the chorus settled down at once as everyone stared expectantly at the barrister.

He began to walk around Maka, inspecting her from every angle, and she flushed.

"Hmmm…." He clasped his hands behind his back, leaning forward, back, and to the side as he circled her. He appraised her in the way she had seen horses and chunks of meat appraised at the market.

"Are you quite finished?" she snapped. "I have all my teeth, fingers, and toes if that is what you're wondering."

"That remains to be seen," Kid replied, but she thought she saw a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

"So? Do we have a deal?" she turned to Wes somewhat desperately, and he in turn looked at Kid.

"This plan is very risky indeed, but if you succeed, I shall be more than willing to devote myself to the cause of representing the young lady's father."

Maka let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and Wes clapped Kid on the back. Soul scowled heavily and tugged at his collar.

"Excellent!" Wes said. "We'll head for our hotel– our London home away from home, if you like."

"You don't have a city estate in London?"

Wes laughed. "No, we stay at the Crescent Moon whenever we visit. It's very grand– and we have long-standing business with the Nakatsukasa family, who own the hotel."

"I'll send a message ahead to Lady Tsubaki to have her people prepare for the girl's arrival." Kid turned to Maka. "They'll put you in your own suite, but nearby, so that we can all work together. You will have attendants, of course, and if you need anything you have only to let them know."

"I understand."

Kid caught her in his level gaze. "You have had previous employment?"

"Yes, I was a ladies' maid for several years."

"Excellent. Then I suppose you'll know the expectations for a lady– but you will need more than knowledge to pull this off. You will need experience. We shall teach you all we can, but you will also need to observe real ladies and become accustomed to behaving around them as a lady, and not as a maid." He steepled his fingers thoughtfully and looked at Wes. "Who shall we introduce her to, Wes? We need a lady's help. We cannot do this alone."

"Kid, you don't suppose Lady Tsubaki would be willing to help us, do you? With the scheme?" Wes looked excited at the prospect. "She does owe us after all. And I know we can trust her."

"That is true. She is a woman of discretion– and her influence certainly couldn't hurt, especially if we need to pass the girl off as a Duchess."

"Very well then," Wes said. "Call the hotel and have them prepare a room for the girl. We'll plot out our next steps."

Kid stood up, ready to make the call, when Wes spoke again.

"Oh, and Kid? Tell the good Lady we've got our work cut out for us."

Kid left and Maka was left standing with Wes and Soul. Wes stuck out his hand. "Well, do we have a deal, Miss-?"

"Albarn," she told him. "My name is Maka Albarn, and yes, I believe we do."

Soul kicked the carpet petulantly.

"Fools!" whispered the Minister of Parliament from the floor, and for once, nearly everyone was inclined to agree with him.

* * *

The first thing they had decided to do was order her new clothes. Kid set an appointment for a dressmaker at a salon on Bond Street, but Wes had insisted that her current clothes be stripped from her and burned before she entered the hotel he was sharing with his brother. As it happened, Maka thoroughly objected to being paraded around London in nothing but her knickers, so Wes graciously allowed her to keep her stained and filthy plaid skirt and her worn yellow blouse, on the condition that they be covered at all times by her overcoat.

"And once you're safely in the room we'll dispose of the coat, too," Wes said.

"I spent six months' savings on this coat! Surely it can't be that bad… Can it?" she asked desperately.

"Well, for a girl of limited means I suppose it isn't– God as my witness I _cannot_ tell a lie– no, Miss Albarn, it is dreadful, and I've always thought so."

She huffed at that and decided not to speak any more. Getting along with Wes outside of the train compartment where they had met was considerably more difficult, and she rather wished he would finish unpacking all his awful dog figurines, for they seemed to make him a nicer person. Or perhaps learning the truth of her parentage and origins (she'd had to confess that her father had been living in Bethnal Green) had hardened his heart against her.

In any case, Soul wasn't speaking to anyone. He was now scowling furiously and refusing eye contact as Wes explained the finer points of the plan to her. Maka thought it was all rather ungrateful– his brother was paying an absurd amount for this charade, all for _his_ benefit, and he couldn't find it in himself to give thanks or even acknowledgment to Wes, who clearly doted on him. To be fair, the whole plan seemed quite stupid, but if it would free her father, she would be party to a plan far more inane than this. Helping Soul Eaton seduce Anya Hepburn had become the ticket to her father's freedom and her future– and she could not fail.

 _But could she really pretend to be in love with him?_

He'd been silent ever since she and Wes had struck their bargain; but she could not forget their time on the train.

 _What sort of man was he, really?_

He shared the same basic features as his brother, and yet, they were nothing alike, in personality or in looks. Soul had a sharper jaw, and his hair fell over his face in an untidy mop, barely obscuring those startling red eyes… Those _eyes_!

They were sliding toward her now, and she jumped. _He'd caught her looking!_

She flushed and cursed her fair skin and expressive face.

 _Yes_ , she decided. _She could pretend to be in love with Soul_.

Maka made a point of calmly looking out the window for the rest of the ride, but inside her emotions were in turmoil. She rested her cheek against the cool windowpane, feeling the burning subside… But her hands closed around her mama's handkerchief and she reminded herself not to let her guard down again.

* * *

The coach stopped before The Crescent Moon Hotel, a tall and beautiful building that lit up the area like a torch. There were balconies surrounding the outside and overlooking a pristine park filled with fountains and flower gardens. The sight of such a fancy establishment made her twist her mama's handkerchief tightly in her hands, and she felt something like hope (or was it hysteria?) bubbling up within her for the first time in years. _Could they really pull this off?_

"Soul?" Wes asked pointedly, when it came time for Maka to disembark from the carriage. She supposed he meant Soul to help her down, but he merely scowled and looked away. What an uncultured ass! Oh, how she _longed_ to anoint him with a well-placed book to the head.

But she supposed it would be better to wait until she had been fed before causing herself to be turned out onto the streets again. So she held her arms and her tongue and followed everyone into the hotel.

When the footman opened the doors to escort the party inside, her jaw dropped at the sight of the glistening lobby. The ceiling was vaulted, with elegant Gothic archways built of lovely pale stone, sloping against the walls and ending at ornately carved wooden imposts which extended all the way to a slick marbled floor. Merry flames leapt from golden candelabras and she followed their flickering reflections to catch sight of herself in a mirror. She looked determined, her brows pulled down and her head thrown back defiantly, and she had to congratulate herself for not shrinking in this place. She imagined all who saw her viewed her as a spot of blood on the neck of a newly-shaven man– a clumsy mistake, something to be scrubbed away.

She would not allow herself to be scrubbed away or ignored. After all, just a few hours ago, she had convinced Kid to take her case, Wes to take her on as a ward, and she had convinced herself that she was worthy of the same dignity and respect as these rich men. She had been given a challenge. To become a lady, to fool _everyone_. And Maka Albarn did not back down from a challenge.

So she smirked a little and held her chin up high, following Soul into the maw of the great hotel like a Queen going to her execution.

Her first stop was to be on the top floor– the private domain of Lady Tsubaki Nakatsukasa, heiress to the Crescent Moon hotel and Nakatsukasa family inheritance. Her family's influence as multinational hospitality tycoons had led to an extensive reputation, and even Maka recalled having read about the family in the papers before.

The reality of the situation hit her and threatened to overwhelm–she was to meet one of the Nakatsukasas in the flesh, at this very moment!

Maka swallowed hard. Her throat had gone dry and her tongue felt like sandpaper in her mouth. What should she say? How should she behave?

She followed Soul, Kid, and Wes into the elevator and was briefly startled out of her general anxiety by a new, more acute terror: She had never ridden in an elevator before.

The elevator began to rise and she grappled with the rail, concerned that she might lose her balance and topple over. When the elevator attendant finally stopped the elevator car to haul open the gate and let in a new passenger, she thought she might throw up. The elevator had jerked at every floor and she could not suppress the irrational fear that the cable would snap and they would all plummet to their deaths.

Her darting eyes caught the barest hint of a smile on Wes' face, but to her surprise, Soul stuck his arm out for her to hold onto.

She looked at him before tentatively accepting his offered arm. He stared straight ahead, still pouting. But he did not jump when she wound her gloved hand around his arm, so she knew he had offered it deliberately.

* * *

As it turned out, Lady Tsubaki was not terrifying at all.

In fact, she was without a doubt the kindest person Maka had met since leaving the Smiths' employ.

After the men had explained the full extent of the situation to Lady Tsubaki, she had assured them that they could leave Maka in her skillful care, and the gentlemen had departed to prepare for dinner. She had been told that her food would be sent up to her room, as she had nothing to wear to dinner with the Eatons. Privately, she was relieved, and glad to catch a break. She watched them leave and turned instead to her new host.

"Now, Miss Maka, why don't you tell me what you think of all this?" Lady Tsubaki poured a cup of tea and handed it to Maka, who accepted it gratefully.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Lady Tsubaki."

The Lady laughed gently. "I spoke with Mr. Mortis on the telephone earlier, and he mentioned that you had been rather unhappy with him and the Viscount. So tell me your side of things."

Lady Tsubaki was an excellent listener, and through her sympathetic nods and gentle encouragement, Maka was able to finally relax.

"And then I called him a coward, and his face turned very pale! And after I had finished, Wes showed up and _applauded_!"

Lady Tsubaki gasped. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and Maka felt gratified.

"A–and…. I must admit I felt rather violent at that moment, but I soon calmed down after we stuck our bargain." Maka finished her story rather lamely, but Lady Tsubaki blinked and clapped her hands together in appreciation.

"Miss Maka, those boys deserved that and far more. I knew someone would set them right someday! But tell me…" She leaned forward conspiratorially, placing her teacup and saucer beside her. "How do you plan to deal with the younger Eaton brother, Soul?"

"Deal with… Soul?"

"Well, how are you going to help him catch Miss Anya Hepburn?"

"Er, well, I had thought that, by –er– posing as his love interest, it would –er, make her jealous and then Mr. Eaton would be free to pursue her?"

Lady Tsubaki nodded, a glint of understanding in her eyes. "Ah, yes. But Mr. Eaton will need all the help he can get. It is not enough for you to play the part of the Duchess and to be seen with him."

"It's… not?"

"No, we will need to make you irresistible. You must become Anya Hepburn's ultimate rival."

"And," Maka asked, her throat tightening as her earlier anxiety returned. _Did she really have what it would take?_ "How do we do that?"

Lady Tsubaki smiled. It was gentle, but there was determination beneath her genteel exterior, and Maka found herself grateful to have a friend and ally in the woman.

"We'll start by getting you a bath."

Those were not the words Maka was expecting to hear.

Nonetheless, Lady Tsubaki led her into a large boudoir, complete with an enormous claw-foot bathtub, and called for two of her attendants to run a bath and help Maka out of her filthy clothes.

Maka's boots came off and one of the attendants gasped at the sight of Maka's stockings, which were riddled with holes and blackened from trampling through soggy London streets.

"They weren't this bad when I left for London, I swear," Maka mourned.

Two of the attendants, who also functioned as companions for Lady Tsubaki, had followed their employer all the way from Japan. They introduced themselves as Tsugumi and Meme, and they were equally as kind as Lady Tsubaki, if not a little silly.

"Miss Maka! Your breasts are as small as mine!" squealed the one named Tsugumi, and Maka flushed as her hands flew to her chest, trying to cover herself.

Lady Tsubaki was more tactful. "I think you have a lovely figure, Miss Maka. Perfect for this latest style of dresses coming from Paris, too!"

Her gentle smile made Maka blush even more.

"I do need some new dresses," she confessed ruefully. "Wes threatened to burn this outfit."

Lady Tsubaki glanced at the rumpled heap on the floor while Maka stepped into the steaming tub.

"Do you have anything to wear besides this?"

Maka shook her head and sank into the water. It was unbelievable! She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a bath- not since she was a child and small enough to fit in a washing pail. At the Smith's, servants usually cleaned their face and hands, and used a washcloth for the rest before church on Sundays.

She knew the scalding water would leave her skin smarting and red, but a chill had settled in her bones since she arrived in London, and she was eager for the chance to soak it out. She held her breath and ducked under the water, letting her hair fan out and the lights and sounds of Lady Tsubaki, Meme, and Tsugumi fade away briefly.

She wasn't alone. She had allies in freeing her father. She had a place to sleep and a way to stay fed and warm. When she'd woken up that morning, she had been at the lowest depths of despair.

 _If only you could see me now, Mama,_ she thought to herself.

Grinning, she surfaced, and Meme and Tsugumi applauded. "Is the water supposed to be that dark?" asked Meme, and Maka scowled. But Lady Tsubaki and Tsugumi only laughed.

"Tsugumi, don't you have some nightclothes Maka could borrow? I think you're about her size."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to take–"

"Yes!" chirped Tsugumi, and she ran off to the room she shared with Meme to look. When she returned, she was carrying nightclothes and announced that the attendants had left a package from Mr. Mortis along with a note.

Lady Tsubaki accepted the package and read the note swiftly.

"Mr. Mortis sends his regards. He has made you an appointment to be fitted tomorrow, but until the new clothes arrive, he has offered some clothes to borrow from his younger ward, Patricia."

Maka was no stranger to used clothing, so she accepted this gratefully. She was about to climb out of the tub when several more attendants arrived. They bade her sit back down and began to scrub her vigorously. At first she protested, but the insulted looks they gave her made her relent and she submitted to their savage scrubbing with resignation.

They rinsed her hair at least seven times, with different products and scents. Then they cleaned under her fingernails and trimmed her hair. She yelped when one of the attendants daubed hot wax above the bridge of her nose and under her brows, then ripped off what must have been half of her skin there.

"What was that for?" she screeched. The attendant ignored her, and Maka gingerly touched the waxed spots, which were now smooth and free of hair.

Another attendant bade her stand up and she was engulfed in an enormous, fluffy white towel which was unusually warm. _They must have towel warmers_ , thought Maka absently.

Fur-lined slippers were placed by the foot of the tub and a chemise was lowered over her head.

Tsugumi and Meme toweled her hair dry and combed out the knots, murmuring appreciatively at the color of her freshly cleaned hair.

"It's light! Like the color of the sand in Brighton! You remember when we went there last summer, don't you, Meme?"

"Was it Brighton after all? I can't remember the color of the sand. Wasn't your hair much darker before the bath, Miss Maka?"

Maka was beginning to think Meme suffered from some kind of impairment. She'd never met someone so absentminded. But the girl was endlessly sweet and patient, so she only smiled and nodded.

After her bath, Lady Tsubaki called for Maka's dinner to be brought up. While they waited, Maka was introduced to her suite, which was down the hall from the one Lady Tsubaki shared with Meme and Tsugumi.

Her suite was spectacular– the very best, they told her. The wallpaper was blue and the floors were covered in rich rugs and carpets. From the bedroom there was a large set of French doors opening onto a balcony, which overlooked London. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the marble-covered bathroom and boudoir with an enormous claw-footed tub, a mirror as long and wide as she was tall, and cushioned stools to perch on. Maka would have been quite happy to sleep in her large dressing room or parlour had she not been introduced to her bed.

Her bed! It was adorned in a canopy of Swiss lace and large enough to fit four or five people, she supposed– and growing up as she had, she had often seen families of seven or eight sharing a smaller space. It looked so soft she longed to touch it, bury herself in it, and sleep forever– but before she could throw herself upon it, she was dragged away by Tsugumi and Meme.

"Your supper has arrived, Miss Maka!"

She followed them into the parlour where two attendants from the kitchen were standing beside a series of platters.

"Miss Albarn, your meal, served… _Ambigu_ ," said the server in a haughty tone. He gestured with a wide flourish of his hand to a sideboard containing cold cuts of meats and cheeses, and then to a tureen of some kind of stew that smelled heavenly to her empty stomach.

Maka had been witness to many of the family dinners at the Smith's, but she had never ordered food to her room before and hardly knew the etiquette. Luckily, Lady Tsubaki relieved her of any responsibility by gliding in and joining her. The attendants faded into the background, doing their best to match the wallpaper, and awaited an empty plate or the sight of an idle fork before making their move.

She tried her best to eat slowly, but she hadn't eaten a proper meal in days, and even her time at the Smiths' had been punctuated by porridge, boiled fish stews and tasteless bread. This was incredible– to think that people lived like this without a second thought! It had always baffled her during her time at the Smiths'. How stark the division between the classes could seem!

After her meal, she staggered toward her bed, filled with food and deliciously sleepy. She had thought to explore the parlour, which was stocked with classic novels, but decided that it could wait until the morrow.

Tsugumi and Meme helped her put her hair up for bed and followed Lady Tsubaki, who bid her goodnight and retired to her own suite on the uppermost floor.

* * *

Maka snuggled beneath the blankets of her bed, needing to make sense of the whole evening and failing miserably.

 _They'd even helped her put on her nightgown._ She insisted on putting on the silk dressing gown herself, feeling rather embarrassed. It was only a week ago that she had been doing the same things for the Smith family, and here she was now with attendants at her beck and call. It felt shameful, fraudulent, but she reminded herself that there would be many challenges awaiting her in this scheme.

There were far worse things than having the life scrubbed out of you and being served a late supper, and she would know. It was absurd to be unhappy about receiving royal treatment, when only this morning she had been worried for her father's life and unsure where her next meal would come from. It was better to be grateful and to remember the most important truth: once the scheme was over, once Soul Eaton was successfully attached to Anya Hepburn, she would return to her dreary life on the street.

 _I should try to enjoy things for what little while I have them_ , she thought. _After all, I won't be part of this life for long._

* * *

She was awoken by Tsugumi, who knocked gently before entering with tea and a tray piled high with croissants, scones, rolls, and a variety of spreads. "Good morning, Miss!" Tsugumi chirped, setting the tray down and then pulling the curtains apart to let in the morning sun.

"Good morning, Tsugumi… What time is it?"

"A little after seven, Miss."

Maka was immediately mortified that she had slept in so late. In her time at the Smiths' she had become accustomed to rising at an unnatural hour– five was the usual, but it was not uncommon to be awake long before sunrise in preparation for special events or important guests.

"The Viscount requested that you join him and his brother for brunch in their suite at ten. What shall I be telling them?"

"That I'll be there, of course." Maka felt she was hardly in a position to be refusing appointments with her new benefactors this early in the game.

She greedily bit into a scone and picked up the newspaper Tsugumi had brought with her tea. What she saw made her nearly spit everything out.

" _Murderer Sonsen Jay arrested at last!"_ The headline on the front page screamed, next to a photo of her father crying.

The article was just as bad, if not worse. Each blurb had a catchy headline that made her head ache.

Blair had clearly been trying to protect her brothel from being ransacked, and somehow she ended up in at least half of the pictures, which were captioned, " _Don't take my client:_ Insider sources reveal the serial murderer was hiding at a brothel in London's East End."

Here was a photo of the policemen dogpiling on top of her screaming father. " _Not without a fight_ : The public was treated to a spectacle as it took sixteen policemen to take him down."

Maka groaned loudly and Tsugumi jumped. "Are you finished eating, Miss Maka?"

She nodded slowly. Her appetite had disappeared as quickly as the public's doubt that they'd caught the right man.

Tsugumi took her tray away as Meme bounded in through the open door with the announcement that there were packages waiting in the hall.

Struggling into the dressing gown she'd laid out over the foot of her bed before bed last night and jamming her feet into those deliciously furry slippers, Maka marveled at the feeling of fabric and fur against her freshly-scrubbed skin. Everything felt so sensuous and raw, and it was a bit dizzying.

"Are you ready to get dressed now, Miss Maka?" Tsugumi asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be, although it's just Patricia's clothes. They probably won't even fit."

" _Will_ they?" asked Meme.

"There's only one way to find out," answered Lady Tsubaki.

Maka froze as the three girls approached her with mad looks in their eyes, holding corset, chemise, and drawers like so many butterfly nets.


	5. Chapter 5

This is a teeny tiny chapter because a lot of Maka's "lessons" are going into an "Outtakes" companion fic (because I wrote so much more for this story that I ended up cutting because I worried it might get boring), but I had to leave a little bit in here since it IS a My Fair Lady story ;) I promise plot things happen soon. Don't get mad. or if you do, at least leave me a review about it!

Warnings for Ch 5: slightly more detailed references to Giriko, and the dangers of sewing implements

* * *

Her boots felt heavy and out of place on the soft carpet of the hotel corridor. Despite their best efforts, the Eaton brothers had not yet managed to procure a suitable replacement for her steel toed boots, and so she wore the "atrocities" (as Wes called them) to their meeting, hoping the lace of her petticoat could cover them up. There was no way, however, to cover up the fact that Maka lacked Patricia's curves: the dress gapped heinously in all the important places. Maka sighed and hoped that the ill-fitting dress was not an omen for the time that she would spend at the Crescent Moon.

"Good morning, Miss Albarn," said a cheery Wes when she entered his suite. He took in her washed appearance. Her hair had been piled atop her head, but she had left a curling tendril on each side of her face, as her Mama used to do. Her hair _did_ look lighter than she had remembered, now that it had been washed, and her reflection in the mirror still caught her by surprise. "And don't you look smart!"

His brother sat sullenly beside him and said nothing. _Why was he being so obstinate?_ she wondered. _He'd been so genial on the train_.

She perched herself hesitantly upon the offered chair and peered around the parlour of their suite. The dog figurines had yet to be unpacked– parcels were piled and stacked and scattered in all sorts of improbable places, but if one overlooked that, it was quite nice. A sparkling marble floor was covered by a plush carpet, and dying rays of sunlight illuminated a grand piano set against the bay window, and a violin case sat in another corner. She wondered which one of them played.

"Now, today we shall get you fitted for some new dresses, and we shall see about replacing your boots as well." Wes cast a disdainful glance at her primly crossed ankles, as though the boots had perhaps insulted some beloved Evans ancestor. Maka stared back defiantly.

"Then we shall commence with the training– beginning with an assessment of your natural aptitude for a range of accomplishments, and by this manner we shall enhance what is good," he smiled here, before continuing, "and _stifle_ what is less than satisfactory."

There was something manic and almost frightening in Wes' tone that left no room for argument. Maka held back a groan, the realization setting in that she was at the complete mercy of a mad stranger possessed of both money and whimsy.

Wes spent the next hour doing all manner of silly things– demanding she walk here and there, observing how she sat, how she stood, how she held her teacup and her knife and fork. Soul sat in the corner barely participating, looking very stuffy and despondent. Every time Maka's thoughts or eyes strayed toward him, though, Wes engaged her in some new nonsensical pattern of thought, so that she found herself nearly forgetting he was there.

Kid arrived and joined them after several hours, and together he and Wes showed her illustrations from fashion plates and asked her for her thoughts on the latest styles. She was asked her opinion on everything from politics to horse races to the weather to the latest trend in riding caps. Wes scribbled everything she did and said furiously onto a notepad, and she wondered how he could find so much to say about it.

Finally, he turned to her, with a weary sigh. "Very well, Miss Albarn. You may retire to your room. We shall decide your schedule and notify you accordingly."

* * *

When her schedule arrived, she found she was to have watercolor lessons with Patricia all morning, and then travel to Bond Street for a fitting with Wes and Elizabeth, Kid's other ward, at Madame Moljnir's. This would be the first test of her capabilities, and she was eager to prove herself. She was her father's only hope, and she couldn't let herself fail.

Unfortunately, her first lesson did not inspire much confidence in anyone as to her abilities, least of all Maka herself.

Patricia was a genial girl, lighthearted and quick to laugh– especially when she saw Maka's disastrous attempts to create art. What was supposed to be a floral scene turned into a muddy, damp mess, and she glared at her piece, which looked particularly pathetic besides the masterful menagerie of animals Patti (which she insisted upon being called) had created.

She'd promised herself to be patient with the others and not to lose her temper, but she had forgotten to apply this rule to herself. By the end of their lesson, she was sure she looked thunderous. How could she free her father if she couldn't even color a daisy?

The agony of her defeat only eased when Patti signed her piece with "For my new friend, Maka" beside a small smiling caricature of the artist herself and held it out proudly.

"Your art is really bad, so I want you to have this."

"Uh, gee, thanks."

"You shouldn't worry. Sissy is terrible at painting as well, and Kiddo isn't even _allowed_ near my art supplies anymore."

"Why not?" Maka found herself intrigued.

Patti giggled. "He took eight days off work to fix the eyebrows on his portrait of Liz. They were in the middle of an important case and some poor man nearly got hanged because Kid wasn't there!"

Maka's heart sank. _How reassuring._ This was the man she was placing her faith in, the man who held her father's life in his hands.

Patti went back to drawing with a smile on her face, and Maka wondered what further tests were in store.

* * *

The next step was to travel to Bond Street for her dress fitting. Wes told her that the eldest Miss Thompson would be accompanying them to provide insight on what fashions would best flatter her figure. After her lessons with Patti, Maka wasn't sure what to expect from their new companion, but she was certainly not expecting Liz.

"Hang on– Maka?"

As Maka met Liz's sapphire gaze, a spark of mutual recognition flared between them both.

"Liz? Is it really you?"

The two girls bridged the gap between them and then they were hugging fiercely, to the utter bafflement of Wes.

Elizabeth Thompson had worked for the Smiths, once upon a time, before electing to move to the city to try her luck in catching a rich man. As she'd told Maka, there was no respectable way to ensure her sister never wanted for anything– not for girls of the working class. And Liz was certainly not above losing her respectability, if it came to that.

After Liz left the Smith's, Maka assumed she had either succeeded in finding a rich husband, or more likely, become a lady of ill repute like so many other girls with dependent relatives and no connections.

So nothing could have prepared Maka for the shock of realizing that Kid's ward, Miss Thompson, was the same Elizabeth Thompson whom she had worked beside at the Smith's residence.

The ride to Bond Street was filled with a flurry of excited discussion, reminiscence, and eager questions.

"Tell me all about your life in London," Maka begged. If Liz had been able to make the transition into society, surely Maka could do it, too.

Liz explained to her that life had been extremely rough after leaving the Smiths', but that after several months in the workhouse, things had turned around.

"When I found Kid– well, I tried to rob him actually, but it turned out alright– you see, he was perfectly willing to let me and Patti come live with him and things have been so much nicer since we've had a proper roof over our heads– nothing worse than the workhouse, you know. But, tell me, how are you in London? I thought you worked for the Smiths?"

"I– Mr. Smith, he– they let me go. I– it's hard to explain, but–" Maka stammered.

"That wanker. Don't tell me he got you too," Liz said with such ferocity that Maka could see that for all her beauty and her new lifestyle, she was a girl of the East End through and through.

"I guess he did, well, Mrs. Smith certainly thought we– I mean, nothing happened, but he seemed to be trying to–"

"That's why I left, too, you know." Liz's expression turned ugly, and Maka could see that even months in the comfort of London's upper echelon had not erased the steel that lay beneath her soft exterior. "If I ever see Gerrick Smith or his vile friends again, I'll take great pleasure in removing any hopes they may hold of ever creating children."

Maka gasped. So that was the real reason behind Liz's departure!

"I thought we were ruined, Maka. Me and Patti. She was living at the Smith's, too, training in the laundry, and just a little girl at the time, barely into her teens. When we left, I thought the only way to get us out of the poorhouse or the sweatshops was to sell myself. I was on my way to Chupacabra's when we ran into Kid. I guess he wasn't expecting a woman to hold him up for money, but he got a lot more than he bargained for." She chuckled darkly, then brightened a bit.

"Kid's a good man, Maka. I know he didn't make the best impression on you. But I want you to know that you can trust him."

Maka still wasn't so sure, but she felt better for having a friend in her midst. Suddenly, her outlook seemed so much brighter. She had Lady Tsubaki, and the Thompsons, and even Tsugumi and Meme, to help her. Even Wes with all his foolishness was doing his level best to make this charade work, and she believed that with all these resources at her disposal, it would be entirely possible to deceive London into believing she was a Duchess.

It was a good thing that the trip had started on such a positive note, for she would surely have soured after arriving at Madame Moljnir's. The woman was sweet as honey, but incredibly disorganized, and rather indiscriminate for where she stuck pins while measuring Maka's body.

Liz, too, was wrapped up in the details of ordering Maka's ballgowns and finery, and was indisposed to rescuing her. While Wes stood at the front of the shop filling out orders and listing the occasions for which Maka would need to be fit, Madame Moljnir and Liz ushered her into the crowded back room and laced Maka into a corset so tight she felt tears squeezing from the corners of her eyelids.

"Hold tight to the mirror, Miss Albarn," instructed Madame Moljnir. Together, she and Liz pulled the strings of the corset while Maka wheezed and struggled to stay upright.

She felt lightheaded and her back ached from the terribly uncomfortable S-bend of the garment. It was designed to give women a rather pigeon-busted appearance, and Maka wondered absently who had come up with such an absurd silhouette.

Madame Moljnir snaked a tape measure around Maka's finished waist and Liz stood back to admire their handiwork.

"Well?" croaked Maka.

The two women shook their heads and went back to work, measuring and fetching all manner and lengths of fabric to drape against her.

"Lace ruffles, I think, will be overkill," murmured Madame Moljnir, and Liz nodded vigorously.

Maka fought a yawn as the two continued their mutterings. They measured her for corsets, drawers, gloves, stockings, hats, and plenty of things that Maka could hardly find names for. There were also instructions to create several dinner dresses, and Wes had ordered that they be suitable for dancing. That had excited her, until Wes squashed her hopeful expression by telling her she was nowhere near ready for a formal society dinner. The dancing would come much, much later.

"Did you think the life of the rich and famous was all fun and leisure?" Liz teased. "Sometimes it's also painfully boring."

"I'm beginning to see that," Maka answered truthfully.

* * *

 **AN: Describing Soul as "stuffy and despondent" gave me great joy. Not as much joy as what's about to happen to him, though. I cry making Maka miserable, but I cackle whenever I torture Soul. This seems to be a common theme among SE writers. on to the angst...**


	6. Chapter 6

Warnings for Ch 6: implied smut and roleplay god these warnings are getting more and more embarrassing

* * *

That evening, the Eaton brothers met Kid at Death's Door, an exclusive gentleman's club.

The footmen took their coats and they made their way into the card-room. A group of familiar faces welcomed Wes with cheers, and he grinned boyishly at his companions before joining the group, who were beginning a game of cards.

Soul made to follow him, but Kid held him back.

"Soul, I wonder if you might join me in the smoking room? I'd like to get your opinion on a cigar."

If Soul thought this was strange, he did not show it.

Once they were settled into the stout leather lounges of the smoking room, Soul spoke up.

"Kid, what's this all about? You know I don't like the taste of cigars."

"I need to speak with you. Regarding the situation with Miss Albarn and Miss Hepburn."

"Oh, good, because I'd like to speak with you about it, too– you've got to help me convince Wes to drop the whole thing. It's ridiculous and unconscionable, to let Ma– err, Miss Albarn, get involved in one of his harebrained schemes."

"Is that what you think," Kid intoned carefully, leaning forward and reaching for his glass of wine.

Soul nudged it closer to him and leaned back. He wished, as he often did, that he could be swallowed by the upholstery.

"Yes. It is what I think."

"Did you wonder," Kid took another calm sip of his wine, but lowered his voice as though they were being scrutinized, "why I asked you in here to discuss this?"

"Wes is busy playing cards again, and he's hardly interested in arguing about this with us." Soul sighed. "He'll do as he wishes, as usual." Kid smiled softly into his wineglass but said nothing, and Soul found himself growing suspicious.

"Why, was there another reason? Something you don't want Wes to know?"

Kid sighed and set his wineglass down. He picked up a napkin and dabbed carefully at the corners of his mouth before answering, and then he lowered it to his lap and began to fold and unfold it very rapidly. To anyone else, the motions would have appeared unremarkable, but to Soul they indicated that the barrister was experiencing great distress.

"Kid, what is it?"

"Wes already knows what I am going to tell you. I know he'd like to keep it from you, if possible. He has not asked me to conceal it, but I know that he would sooner die than bring this up. He is so proud, you know."

"What are you–"

"But I am not so proud." Kid cut him off smoothly, and splayed his fingers out before him, examining his hands carefully in an orchestrated attempt to avoid eye contact with Soul.

Soul had a sinking feeling, the kind of heavy, solemn sensation one experiences in the moments before their life is irrevocably changed. He suddenly very much did not want to hear what Kid had to say, but he was riveted to the couch, unable to stop the impending news.

"The money, Soul. How much do you know?"

"The money? I– my parents– they didn't–" Soul's mouth went dry. Speaking about this was incredibly painful, so best to get it all out at once. "They left it all to Wes. Not like it mattered to me. Big deal, known that for a long time now. Saw it coming, not a surprise to anyone, really."

For a moment Soul discerned pity in Kid's gaze, and he found the presence to stand up and head for the door. "If we're done in here, I think I'll go and see how Wes is faring–"

"Stay. This is important."

Soul halted. "Can you just _tell me_ whatever it is?"

"Miss Hepburn, do you think you can love her?"

Soul eyed him suspiciously from the door. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Kid sighed again. "Everything, I'm afraid."

Soul walked back to the couch and sat down. "Alright, Kid, spit it out. I'm tired of playing games. Everyone treats me like a child–"

"There's no money, Soul."

"What? What do you mean–"

"Wes would sooner die than ask you for help in remedying your parents' mistakes– knowing how they treated you, after all. But I've looked at the accounts, and the way your parents were managing the money, it's not– it wasn't sound, and when they died, they left behind a great deal of debt. One of the greatest debtors is Miss Hepburn's family."

Soul felt himself grow pale. The ceiling swam somewhere above him and he tried to reconcile the spinning in the room with the bile rising in his throat.

"I know why you agreed to court the unattainable Miss Hepburn, Soul, do not think me a fool," Kid said gently. "I know you aren't truly inclined to marry, and believe me, I understand. So does Wes, for all his urging you to settle down– we, neither of us, are the marrying type, so how could we condemn your decision to forgo matrimonial bliss–"

"But there's no money."

"Yes," Kid snatched up the napkin again and resumed his folding activities as he spoke. "And you know, Miss Hepburn has a sizable sum coming to her. She is an heiress to an enormous fortune."

Soul felt hysteria bubbling up within him. "But even if I wanted to I can't– she would never–"

"She _would_." Kid said quietly. "There have been whispers of a scandal involving Miss Hepburn and a lady's maid–" he cleared his throat uncomfortably before continuing. "Rumor has it, her father has given her an ultimatum– she must be engaged before Christmas or she will be disinherited. I think they would be prepared to overlook the debt if you saved their daughter from scandal."

"That still doesn't– there are other men, other suitors, she would surely choose over me–"

"Do not discount yourself yet, Soul. Those other suitors may have money but they have no family legacy. Being connected, even as an in-law, to a title like Evans, Anya's family would finally be irrevocably tied with old wealth, even if it is only in appearance. Her family craves repute." Kid spread his hands magnanimously. "And, if nothing else, those other men do not have a dedicated team at their disposal, determined to ensure their success."

"No, you can't be serious! You can't seriously still be thinking that this plan of Wes', that this _farce,_ involving Ma-Miss Albarn will _succeed_!"

"It is our only hope." Kid opened the cigar box and began to arrange the cigars on the table before them. "Or rather, it is _my_ hope. I am selfish enough to beg, Soul. If you do not marry, I fear Wes shall have to. He fears it, too."

Soul snorted despite himself. "That will _never_ happen. His reputation is enough to deter even the most desperate of wallflowers; and no family would allow it, especially one as sensitive to scandal as the Hepburns."

"I suppose that is true," Kid said, looking relieved. "But Soul, only think– if you marry Miss Hepburn, you shall be free to do as you please. You and Wes would have nothing to fear if you were to inherit Anya's fortune."

Soul was silent for a long while.

"Soul–?" Kid prompted him gently.

"I need to be alone for a while, Kid. Tell Wes I'll find my own way back to the hotel."

"But will you– will you do it?"

Soul turned to him with dead eyes. "Wes is my brother. He's always looked after me. What choice do I have?"

* * *

Soul returned to the Crescent Moon some minutes after midnight, after wandering aimlessly through the streets of London, looking for divine inspiration and instead finding only darkened, poorly paved avenues and drunken drifters.

Then again, at the moment he wasn't certain he would have recognized a solution if it hit him over the head– he was deep in a miserable stupor and feeling dangerously low. An urge he'd successfully fought for a long time had crept up within him.

He knew where the piano was, knew there was no one awake to hear him at this time of night, knew it would leave him feeling empty and isolated afterward. But it drew him in all the same.

His steps clattered noisily along the red and black marble floor and he felt the giddy, destructive lull overcome him as he stepped into the sole beam of light illuminating the instrument. He didn't hesitate once he lifted the fallboard– old habits came rushing back to him and he played that night as he hadn't played since his parents' deaths.

* * *

Meanwhile, many floors above the piano room, Wes had returned to his suite, with Kid at his side. Since Soul was still nowhere to be found, Wes suggested they take advantage of the momentary privacy. Kid, however, was stalling.

"I hardly think– the impropriety– your brother could return at any moment, and the last thing I want to do is incorporate my work into our time together–"

"Nonsense. It simply isn't fair that you get to be in the courtroom all day and then refuse to let either of us play the part of the ruthless barrister in the bedroom!"

"Wes, can we put this foolishness aside? I know you're enamoured of this– idea– but I really must insist–"

"Mmmm, now we're getting somewhere, I do love it when you argue…"

"Wes!"

"No, no, go back to the part where you were going to _insist_. I liked that."

"The point was to get you to drop the issue, not to spur you on–!"

Wes slithered over to where Kid stood defiantly, with his hands on his hips, looking for all the world like a disapproving governess.

"Come on now, it would be so easy, don't you think? You're already in the fighting spirit… Or would you rather be the _defendant_?" Wes smiled knowingly as Kid sputtered.

The Viscount slid his arms around his counterpart. "Barrister, if you don't state your case, I'm going to hold you in contempt of the _court_ –"

"Oh for goodness sake!" Kid yelped, feeling Wes squeeze his backside suggestively. " _Fine_. But keep the legal jargon to a minimum. You have absolutely no idea how _foolish_ you sou- _mmfph_!"

Wes cut him off with a kiss, and if he was being perfectly honest, Kid wasn't sorry at all.

* * *

Maka had been trying unsuccessfully to sleep for some hours. But eventually she had to admit defeat. She'd eaten a light dinner and she felt herself disturbed by her stomach's continuous grumbling. Beyond that, her neighbors in the next suite, which must surely share a thin wall with her own, were speaking just loudly enough to rouse her from sleep, no matter how tired she may be. She could hear masculine voices and laughter as they returned to their hotel room, and their low tones drifted through every so often, setting her mind on edge.

Eventually the loud neighbors must have decided to go to sleep, because they quieted down, and she felt it safe to return to her book. That is, until the thumping began.

The first time it happened she thought perhaps someone had been thrown into a wall, or a dresser or other item of furniture had fallen over. Then the noise issued again, and again, and she squinted at the far wall, where a pleasant picture of the moon was about to fall–!

She rushed over and managed to catch it before it shattered, but this only brought her closer to the source of the disturbance. Now she could make out noises– human noises.

 _Oh dear_ , Maka thought. Someone was whimpering! She hoped he was okay, it sounded like he wasn't in pain, exactly, but–

 _Wait a minute._

She hadn't grown up in a brothel for nothing! She knew what those noises were–

"Guilty, I plead guilty!"

"Barrister, surely you forget yourself! _WHO_ do you plead to?"

"... Is this really necessary?"

There was a groan and then finally an embarrassed, "You, your...honor….."

 _What the–_

Maka gasped and her hands flew to her cheeks, which were burning and surely as red as a hot fire poker.

 _She knew who those voices belonged to._

"Sen-tence- _mee_ -?!"

Maka flung herself across the room, mortified by her eavesdropping. Was there _nowhere_ she could go to escape the sounds of intercourse?! Was all of London conspiring to bring her misery and humiliation?

This was untenable. She would just have to– have to go for a walk for a bit, and hope with all her being they were finished by the time she returned.

In a panic, she cast about for some clothes she could throw on over her nightdress. The dresses from Patricia were still in Lady Tsubaki's suite upstairs. Yet still, she could hardly walk downstairs in nothing but her dressing gown.

"Objection! Objectioooooooooonnnnnnn–"

Her frantic eyes set upon the tablecloth adorning her bedside table. _It would have to do_. She tugged it off and flung it around her shoulders, then scurried into the hallway as fast as her feet would take her.

* * *

All the feelings and memories Soul had been trying to ignore his whole life came pouring out into his music, and he lost track of time, of everything around him, just as he had hoped. When he played, he could forget himself– the person he hated so much– and simply let the music do the hating for him.

Sneaking out was far easier than Maka had anticipated. The hall was dimly lit by ceiling lamps placed every few yards, and the rich carpet muffled her footfalls as she padded down the corridor, passing several other rooms before she reached the electric lift, a modern curiosity she had only ridden a few times before– and only since coming to stay at the hotel. Inside, a rather pimply youth stood at attention and was obliged to take her down to the ground floor.

Now that she had ridden it several times, she felt confident enough to enjoy the ride. Maka thought the trip down in the lift was thrilling– it was never as exciting on the way up! She knew her obvious delight betrayed her humble upbringing, but as she glanced at the attendant, he grinned. "Fun, ain't it, Miss? If I may say so, some o' the ladies and gents what we get in 'ere ain't much for it– truth be told, I feared you was a fainter, way you looked when you first got in, but you're made of tougher stuff than that, I s'pose!"

She returned his smile and asked his name, imagining that these late night shifts must be boring. The poor boy was probably quite lonely!

"Hero," he answered, his chest swelling with pride. "Came up with it myself, I did!"

Maka tried to stifle her laughter with a little cough. Then an idea struck her.

"I know a place as opulent as the Crescent Moon must have quite a library, do you know where I might find it?" A good new book was like a helpful friend in a confusing and hectic situation. Reading would do her well, and help calm and organize her thoughts.

Hero was overjoyed at the prospect of helping her, and gave her instructions to find the library.

Once they reached the ground floor, he also tried to give her a deep (and wholly unnecessary) bow as she departed. She thought she detected a faint blush on the boy's face, and couldn't help smiling a bit at his silliness.

She found more people in the lobby than she had expected– apparently the late dinner crowd was just dispersing. Giggling supper-goers drifted tipsily through the great hall to the court outside the hotel where the cabs queued, and guests of the hotel appeared to be retiring to their rooms with varying levels of weariness. Maka was intrigued to see an orchestra disassembling by the restaurant.

Some of the patrons were looking at her with curiosity so she hurried along, passing through a grove of potted ficus trees and up a set of stairs. Here appeared to be a set of drawing rooms for entertaining guests; they were darkened, mostly, and empty of any guests, but when she peeked through an open door to one of the rooms, she found dim lanterns burning on card tables, elegantly painted wooden screens and a smattering of plush couches.

According to Hero's instructions, the library was just past this set of rooms. She drew the door closed behind her and tripped along the carpet through the dim light.

The lanterns burning on the the walls lent an ethereal glow to everything, and Maka unhooked one to carry with her, reveling in the silence. She couldn't remember the last time she'd truly been able to enjoy solitude, to feel at peace.

The rooms all seemed to be connected by a series of internal doors as well as those which led to the hallway, so she proceeded to make her way through each of them. Here was a Roman-themed room, with pillars, soft draping fabrics and statuettes. Here was a creepy room, where the portraits all seemed to have eyes which followed her– she did not linger in this place.

But where was the library? Had Hero simply been guessing when he gave her these directions?

She considered ending her journey, but something drew her to continue exploring. This world had been so long forbidden to someone of her class, and she knew that during the day she would have no chance to wander and take in the hidden mysteries of the Crescent Moon.

The next area she came to was an enormous banquet hall– tables bedecked in flowing cloth were arranged throughout, with appealing centerpieces completing the picture. But as Maka wandered around, holding up her lantern to admire the mirrors and ornate wainscoting, she heard something from the next room.

It was faint, but it sounded like the notes of a piano. Curious, she crossed the hall to press her ear against the door to the next room.

It _was_ a piano, but it was unlike any piano she had ever heard. It began with a few tinkling tones, building to a cacophony of harsh, yet strangely melodic chords. Notes overflowed like angry words, reverberating through the room beyond hers at a feverish pace. There was an element of danger to it– why else would her heart beat so fast and her breath come so short?

She was utterly mesmerized. The well-ordered and predictable nursery rhymes and tavern songs of her youth seemed a world away. Nor was this comparable in any way to the chamber music she had heard played whenever the Smiths had hosted dinner parties.

 _This_ music was dark and sensuous, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she imagined the hands that stroked those keys, the way they pressed carved ivory and ebony into compliance and brought forth haunting melody. She felt as though this pianist was coaxing something out of her very bones– something she longed to understand but which had always been so far out of reach.

A shiver stole through her as the piano music reached a crescendo, and she tugged her borrowed tablecloth tighter over her thin frame. The silky material slid against her collarbone and she inhaled, imagining the way the mystery pianist's hands must have drifted along the keys of the piano to produce that rich noise. An unfamiliar longing stirred within her and she barely noticed the music dying away.

She was startled back from her musings by the approaching footsteps of whoever was behind that door.

There was no time to run– whoever was behind the door would find her spying right away if she didn't find a place to hide.

Maka felt panic rising in her throat, replacing the rapture that had filled her previously. Should she blow out the lantern? She knew enough about lanterns to be afraid that it would only combust into flammable smoke and make her presence more noticeable. So she set it on the ground and dashed for the window, where thick drapes hung like a beacon. She pressed herself against the wall and held her breath.

The mystery musician opened the door to the room. She could not see him through the thick velvet of the drapes, but she could hear him well enough. The floor was wooden and old– it creaked with his every footstep. He paused, no doubt absorbing the implications of her lantern on the floor.

If she was lucky, he would think she left the lantern and fled into the hall, and then he would leave with the lantern and she could hide here until she was safe and make her way upstairs under cover of darkness.

He seemed to be walking around the room now, probably looking under tables in the banquet hall. She let out a quiet sigh of relief. If he found nothing under the tables he would leave. Maybe.

There was a crash and muffled cursing. She jumped a little. The musician began to walk towards her hiding place. She heard him place his lantern and her own on a table.

He came close enough that she could hear his breathing. She pressed herself hard against the wall and slowly, quietly, slid along the wall away from him. She could feel the folds of fabric becoming thicker and she settled uncomfortably behind the pleats.

Maka shivered as the sound of a hand on fabric swept closer and closer to her. He was shaking the curtains. She closed her eyes and prayed that she wouldn't be caught.

It was all she could do not to scream as his hand brushed across the fabric covering her stomach. _It was over._ He would call the police, she would be disgraced, her father would hang, and she would be back on the streets.

… And then he moved on.

The footsteps, miraculously, began to move away.

Maka's knees felt weak with relief and she willed herself to keep standing when all she wanted to do was collapse in a nervous puddle.

The footsteps paused, and then she heard him walk back to retrieve the lanterns.

And then her stomach growled. Loudly.

She heard her assailant's breath catch as he heard, and then he was striding towards her.

"Aha!" He shouted triumphantly as he ripped the curtains away.

She screamed.

He screamed.

They screamed in unison for several seconds before Maka broke it off and hit him over the head, hard.

He fell to the floor, clutching his head and muttering profanities. She took in his appearance. Through his hands, she caught a glimpse of white hair and gasped. It was Soul Eaton.

 _She was in so much trouble_.


	7. Chapter 7

Warnings for Ch 7: I used up all my embarrassing warnings last chapter

* * *

"What the HELL!" Soul gasped, tears streaming from his eyes.

"You _startled_ me!" It wasn't an apology, but she was working towards that.

"You startled _me_! Care to tell me what you're _doing_ , sneaking around at night, spying on me, hiding in draperies, wearing– is that a tablecloth?"

He was standing now, and his face was nearly as pale as his hair. _Gobsmacked_ was the word that came to Maka's mind, as she watched him open and close his mouth like a dying fish. She noticed his teeth glinting in the lamplight, as sharp as ever.

Maka raised her chin and managed an indignant scowl. "It's a _shawl_! And I simply came down here because–"

 _Oh dear_! What could she say?

"–Err, I was in my room and…"

Was he aware of his brother's preference for men? Even if he were, her cheeks burned at the thought of describing _why_ she had been forced from her room.

"I decided to go downstairs because I needed…"

"What?"

Her stomach growled again and she was hit with inspiration. "...A bite to eat?"

"A bite to eat," he repeated incredulously.

"Yes! So I was going about my business when YOU... _accosted_ me!"

Soul's bewilderment slowly gave way to a small, smug smile, as if he thought he were about to win the argument, or whatever it was they were having. His voice dripped with triumph as he drawled, " _Oh_? Are they still serving food behind those drapes at this hour?"

She snarled.

Then her stomach grumbled again, even louder this time, and his eyes widened. "You're really that hungry?"

She let the silence stretch, punctuated only by her small shrug. "I haven't eaten much these past few days."

His face smoothed out into an unreadable mask. Then he turned and began walking toward the door.

"Wait– where are you going?" she called.

"To the kitchen. Are you coming?"

She could hardly argue– if she said she weren't hungry he would know she was lying, and if she went back to her room– there was no telling what she might hear.

So Maka followed him out to the corridor, where they walked in uncomfortable silence to the kitchen. She was so embarrassed, she almost wished she had been found by someone else and taken for a thief. The police would surely make less awkward dinnermates than Soul Eaton.

"Are you sure this is alright?" she asked as they reached the dining room. "I don't want to impose–"

He snorted and handed the server their order. "Too late for that."

Maka bristled. Was he telling her she was imposing on him? Wasn't this whole thing for his benefit? If he didn't want her help, why didn't he simply tell Wes to call it off?

She was still pondering how to bring this up when their food arrived.

"How did you know I liked roasted chicken?" Maka asked suspiciously.

He glared at her. "You stole enough of my sandwiches on the train..."

"Oh." She fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth hanging around her shoulders.

"So, are you going to tell me what you were really doing downstairs?"

"What? I told you, I wanted a bite to eat–"

"You're a terrible liar. And you were nowhere near the kitchens."

Maka paused. "Well, I was looking for a library. I thought I would read a book."

"You have books in your room. Why did you have to come downstairs at this hour?"

Maka fought her rising irritation and screwed her eyes shut. He wanted the truth, did he? Well! She would tell him the truth!

"I have the suite adjoining your brother's."

"So?"

"He had _company_."

Soul went pale. "Oh, God," he whispered.

"I was indisposed to eavesdropping, so– I came down here." Maka looked down at her lap and bit her lip. Soul's manner had changed so abruptly she felt certain he knew exactly what was transpiring between Kid and Wes at this very moment. Still, she couldn't help but rub it in– he had been so very insolent, after all, so she continued.

"I hope I shall not have to speak plainly about what I heard?"

"N-no", he choked out. "I am sure that will not be necessary."

"Anyway. Once I was downstairs, I really did think I would try to find a library, so that I could read before bed, and I… found you." Maka took a deep breath. "I apologize for listening to you play. If it makes any difference, I didn't know it was you behind that door."

"How long were you there? What did you hear?" he asked sharply.

"I truly am sorry, I shouldn't have– It was wrong of me. I began to hear it and I lost track of time."

He appeared to be wrestling with some great emotion, and Maka could see the conflict splayed across his face as he struggled to find words.

"Did you… understand it?"

"I-I'm not sure how to answer that question– I liked it, it was very–" _sensuous? dark? haunting_? What could she say that wouldn't be completely embarrassing?

"I don't think I understood it, but I did like it," she finally answered truthfully. She looked at Soul to gauge his reaction, and found him staring at her as though he had never seen her before.

"Are you alright?" It wasn't the right thing to ask, but she could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes–sorry." He flushed and began to attack his food with intensity, avoiding her gaze.

She wished he wouldn't be so embarrassed. For the life of her, she couldn't see what was causing his odd behavior.

Soul Eaton was a puzzle she just couldn't quite work out. He'd been friendly on the train, and then he'd practically spit daggers at her when Wes suggested they conspire to help him woo Anya. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when she'd heard him playing the piano, but he'd escorted her to the dining room to allay her hunger. And now he could barely look at her.

She'd meant to wait before confronting him, but it occurred to her that there would be no better time than this. She had him where he couldn't escape. He'd started on his dinner and there was nothing to distract them from this conversation.

"Soul. Can I ask you a question?"

He gulped. "What?"

"Why are you being so obstinate? Wes is only trying to help you. We all are. Why don't you want my help?"

"Look. Don't take this the wrong way, but," he rubbed the back of his neck wearily, "it's complicated, and I don't really want to discuss it."

"Oh really?" She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, gazing at him earnestly. "Feel free to take this the wrong way: I have no personal investment in you or anyone else involved here. I'm only in this so that your brother will pay the cost of my legal expenses. But I do know this; I don't have a chance of succeeding without your help. And I'm not really in the business of wasting my time. Either you enter this as my partner, _willingly_ , or I'm out. I can't pull the weight of both of us."

Soul opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a finger and continued. "However, if you work with me, I have no doubt that we can pull this off. We'll make you the most eligible bachelor in all of England."

"You really are so confident that this can succeed?"

"Do you think me so plain as to be incapable of inspiring jealousy?"

His face got very red and he mumbled something incoherent.

"What was that?" she leaned closer, invading his personal space, and he leapt back.

"Someone with a more womanly figure might be a good place to start–" he began defiantly, but Maka cut him off with a copy of _Les Miserables_ to the skull.

"The hell? Where did that even come from?!" he shrieked. "Did you take that from the library earlier? Where were you hiding it? Under that stupid tablecloth you're wearing, or–"

"Stop waffling." She stowed her book away and turned back to face him. "Are you going to tell me what's making you so hesitant about this plan? I have all night to listen."

"Yes, you've proven to be an excellent listener, alright."

"I already said I was sorry! Besides, I don't understand what's so shameful about someone hearing you play. That's what music is for, you know, to be listened to. I _liked_ it." She stuck her chin out a little, daring him to argue, and he sighed.

"I just… Don't think it's right for you to be caught up in this mess. Wes is always coming up with harebrained schemes and usually everyone ends up the worse for it."

"So you are worried on my account…? But don't you see that this plan will help you with Miss Hepburn? You do love her, don't you? That's why you're pursuing her, isn't it?"

"I already told you; it's complicated." He ran his hands through his hair. "I like her well enough, I suppose, though I've only met her a handful of times. But more than anything, she has fortune and an opportunity for freedom from debt to my brother. I cannot continue to live off the charity of my brother. I've overstayed myself as it is."

"But Wes loves you, of that I am certain. I am sure he does not begrudge you for it."

"No, Wes has never begrudged me a thing. But… My whole life, I've been the odd one out. All I want to do is get out of my brother's shadow. He's always been the only one people see– the perfect gentleman, the embodiment of what the heir to the Evans line should be."

Maka wondered if he saw the same Wes Eaton that she did, because the extent of her experience with the elder brother so far had included bizarre dog figurines, waving fireplace pokers, and being upbraided for her choice of clothing. But she could also tell that Soul cared deeply for his brother, so she wisely said nothing.

"It would be hell, to continue to live off my brother, never doing a thing for myself. I've been a burden on my family for far too long, and it's time for me to take care of myself for once. I need to be my own person, do things for myself."

"I understand," Maka told him quietly. "My mama was like that too. I want to be just like her. Only…"

"What is it?"

"Well, I can't leave my father the way she did. Even though he's a lecherous traitor and irredeemable womanizer, I– I still don't want him to be killed for someone else's crimes."

"He won't be," Soul said quietly. "Kid is a fantastic lawyer. He'll free your father."

Maka's heart leapt. "Does that mean–?"

Soul grinned. "Yeah," he held out a hand for her to shake. "Let's do this." Maka smiled and let his hand eclipse hers.

Their partnership forged and the air between them cleared, they finished their dinners and Soul escorted her back up to her room.

They listened at the door to the suite next to hers, which he shared with Wes, to be certain that there were no more _activities_ occurring inside.

Apparently satisfied that Wes and Kid were sleeping, he bid her an awkward goodnight and they went their separate ways.

* * *

 _It's strange_ , Maka thought, _what a difference a conversation can make_. She felt a surge of confidence, knowing that Soul would be her partner in this scheme and stop working against her.

She drifted off to sleep with the memory of his music in her mind.


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days, Wes and Kid were busy negotiating at a meeting for the merchants they had holdings with. During this time, Maka was instructed to defer to Lady Tsubaki and Soul for her tutelage. She thought it was patently absurd that Soul was being tasked with teaching her manners, and told him so. He shrugged and gestured to a booklet Kid had left behind on the subject of phonetics.

"We have to change your accent," he told her.

"What accent?!" she cried, appalled. "I'm sure I don't sound like an East Ender!"

"No, you don't, but who taught you to speak?"

"My mother learned English as a second language, and my father's family is Irish," she told him stiffly.

"The people at the ball will almost certainly be waiting for any shred of gossip they can glean. You must learn how to speak as a Duchess would, or you'll be discovered immediately."

Maka got to work while Soul and Lady Tsubaki planned her next lesson on dining etiquette. Eventually, however, Tsugumi and Meme took over for him, as he was looking extremely bored, and he wandered over to sit beside Maka on the sofa instead.

Maka's face pinched with effort. "Can you make sense of this? It says here, 'Every syllable should be enunciated with a musical tone. If you pitch your voice correctly, it will sound pleasant and lilting.' But how ought I to pitch my voice? It's all well and good to tell me about _fricatives_ and _sibilants_ , but a fat lot of good it'll do me if I can't listen to myself!"

"You're overthinking it," said Soul. "If you think about the way the sound is produced, and you consider your body to be an instrument, you have only to tune yourself properly to produce the desired sound."

"How do you mean?"

"The lungs, diaphragm, and vocal cords provide the breath support for your articulation. But the teeth, lips, tongue, and rest of the mouth provide the manner of articulation. If you think of it as a system of instruments working closely together to produce a resonant harmony, you'll realize you need to focus on the system as a whole, and not only the separate parts individually."

"But how can I make it sound pleasant if the individual parts are so discordant? I can't even hear what's supposed to be wrong with my articulation!"

Soul looked thoughtful. "Well, ear training is as important for any musician as it is for a phoneticist. I'll listen and tell you the different tones I hear, and we'll work together until it's right."

"You can really do that?"

"It's worth a try," he said.

"I'm agreeable to that, but I'm so tired of these limericks Wes gave me to practice," she told him. "They're vulgar and difficult."

"Well, what else is there?"

"I can read to you!" She dashed over to the bookcase beside the mantle, where the hotel had stocked various classics.

"All those books look stuffy and boring."

"Oh, hush. Here are some favorites by Jane Austen! And poems of Emily Dickinson. Oooh, have you read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?"

Soul groaned. "How have you read so many books?"

Maka hummed happily. "I used to live down the street from a bookseller. He let me read as much as I liked as long as I watched the shop while he was out from time to time. But… I haven't read a _new_ book since I moved to work for the Smiths years ago."

She ran her finger slowly along a row of hardbound spines. "And all these seem to be books I've read."

"Reading so much isn't good, you know," Soul told her, his eyes following her thoughtful perusal of the novels. "You'll start to sprout mushrooms on your head if you don't go outside."

Maka ignored him and selected a book. "Jane Eyre! Let's read this one."

"What is that about, a poor relation who marries the rich cousin? Or perhaps finds out that she is really heir to a large fortune?"

"No. It's about a woman who is torn between her love for a gentleman who is already married, and her sense of what is moral and just. How is that? Exciting enough for you?"

"That's the wrong kind of exciting. A true gentleman stays faithful to his partner," Soul said vehemently.

"Yes. Well." Maka looked away, her cheeks perhaps a bit pinker than usual. "Maybe we'll read the poems, then."

* * *

Several days later, Kid and Wes returned from their meeting and Maka found herself in the banquet hall with Lady Tsubaki and Kid. The day would be spent teaching Maka the finer arts of comportment and manners. Maka thought it should be easy since she had worked at the Smiths' for three years and knew most of the customs, but she was soon disabused of this notion, especially when it came to how she walked and carried herself.

Lady Tsubaki was patient; Kid less so. His lingering worship of symmetry nearly drove Maka to lodge a book in his skull– and this could have been easily achieved as they had placed several heavy tomes atop her head and demanded that she glide around the room without upsetting them.

"Do not tilt this way and that, Miss Albarn. You see, it will destroy the delicate picture of balance which we shall work so hard to achieve. Observe myself and the good Lady."

He and Lady Tsubaki glided around the room, first walking, then dancing together in an elegant waltz.

Maka sighed.

"Try to imagine your spine is being pulled by a delicate thread stretching to the ceiling, Maka. You will appear to float if you only imagine that you are hanging by a hair. You mustn't break the thread!"

Maka crept around the room in increasing frustration, and tried not to notice the looks of horror and amusement that Kid and Lady Tsubaki respectively wore.

"Don't break the thread, Maka!" called Lady Tsubaki, and Maka hunched her shoulders and slid her foot out slowly ahead of her. Her shuffle scuffed the floor, certainly, but she was certain that her imaginary thread had not been broken.

Kid and Lady Tsubaki did not look placated, however.

"Perhaps everyone can be convinced I suffered a terrible injury and can no longer walk? I can sit all the time," begged Maka, desperation clouding her voice.

"Nonsense. There shall be no continuing this farce if you cannot walk properly. It will give you away in an instant." Kid's voice was stern, and his jaw was set.

"Fine," she gritted out in response.

"How fares the little duckling? Is she a swan yet, friends?" trilled a grotesquely cheerful Wes Eaton. He poked his head into the drawing room and caught sight of Kid and Lady Tsubaki's sour expressions.

"I have just the thing!" He threw the doors open and several footmen entered with a tea tray. They set it down and Wes dismissed them. "Now, Maka, you shall carry these two teacups, one in each hand, and one atop your head, and not drop them."

"B-but! That's boiling water! I'll be scalded!"

"Not if you keep them from falling," he consoled her sweetly.

She looked desperately for help but found none. Kid had raised his eyes to the heavens, as if in prayer, and Lady Tsubaki was staring resolutely at the floor.

"Fine," she gritted out again. "Give them to me." It was time to put the pompous, sadistic Viscount in his place.

He tipped the teapot over the teacups and filled them to the brim with steaming hot liquid. If she tipped even a fraction of an inch, the tea would spill over the lip of the cup and burn her hand, or head.

Wes guided her to a corner of the room and bade her walk across it. She took a breath, as deep as she dared without upsetting her precious cargo, and tensed her body to take a step.

"Graceful, Maka!" called Wes. "You are not beating the ground into submission. You are letting your feet kiss the ground. Softly, softly."

 _Kiss the ground? How about letting her feet kiss his skull?_ She tried to imagine the floor was Wes Eaton's face, and found that her composure remained even as she lifted her foot in front of her.

"Very good! Keep going!" Wes cheered.

"You can do it, Maka!" exclaimed Lady Tsubaki.

Encouraged, Maka shifted her weight cautiously to her other hip.

"Like a feather, drifting in the breeze!" Kid enthused. "Perfectly balanced, from side to side."

She shut her eyes and took another step.

The teacups did not tumble.

"Bravo!" came a chorus from her audience.

She continued successfully, step by step, until she reached the point in the room where she was instructed to turn.

"Pick a point in the distance and focus on it," suggested Lady Tsubaki. "You will keep your balance better, that way."

Maka picked a point in the distance and imagined it was Wes Eaton with a fork in his back, laid out on a banqueting table with an apple in his mouth. She gave a triumphant, if wobbly, grin when she landed the turn and sunk into a slight curtsy for good measure.

Everyone cheered.

"By God, that was the most excellent display of grace my young eyes have seen!" shouted Wes. "Present company excluded, of course," he finished quickly and Kid smirked.

"Yes, quite good," the barrister praised. "You shall be dancing in no time. Any news on the dancing dresses, Wes?"

"I've sent Soul to Bond Street to check on the progress. When he returns I shall be sure to ask. Maka, my darling, you do us proud."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Maka told him sweetly.

* * *

After the success of the walking lesson, Wes and Kid had attempted to capitalize on their momentum by teaching Maka to waltz, but it only ended in frustration for Maka and sore toes for the gentlemen.

Maka returned to her room, where an attendant had brought in a package with a short note.

 _Maka, these are yours. But don't even think about hitting me with them –_ _S_

 _PS I have no idea what books you like, so if you hate them, blame the bookseller_

It seemed Soul had returned from Bond Street, after all, and with a present for her, no less! Her near-constant moaning the past few days about the poor state of the Crescent Moon's library had come to some avail. She greedily tore at the paper wrapping, and lifted out four freshly-pressed, hardbound books. Cracking their spines lovingly, she indulged herself, inhaling the scent of binding paste, ink, and fresh paper with something akin to rapture.

"Miss Maka–?" Tsugumi stood in the doorway, tentatively, as if she were afraid she had caught Maka in a private moment. Maka stowed the book she was holding behind her back hurriedly, foolishly, as if she had something to hide. "Yes? What is it?"

"The Eaton brothers want to know if you'll join everyone for dinner downstairs tonight."

"Downstairs?! A formal dinner? In front of everyone?" She really must be doing well, if they felt her ready for such an occasion. "Oh, but what shall I wear?"

Tsugumi's eyes brightened and she stepped further into the room, almost tripping over herself to get to Maka. " _The dresses have come_ , Miss Maka. They have _arrived_."

Her tone was hushed, and so reverent Maka nearly laughed aloud.

But when she walked into Lady Tsubaki's parlour, where the packages had been delivered, her jaw dropped. A small mountain of hatboxes and parcels tied up with lace and ribbon were sprawled from the couch to the fireplace.

Tsugumi and Meme were practically vibrating with excitement over the boxes, so she let them open them all while she and Lady Tsubaki looked on from the couch.

Hats, capes, chemises, petticoats, blouses, and skirts tumbled forth as Meme and Tsugumi pulled at the ends of the ribbon holding the parcels together.

For dinner, they selected a silvery green empire waisted dress with silver and pearl beads sewn into it so that it appeared to shimmer with every move she made. The thin fabric was breezy and almost scandalously sheer, so that when she moved in front of candlelight, one could imagine they were seeing the outline of legs beneath the fine layers of the dress. Maka wasn't sure it was entirely proper, but she couldn't help but admire the way she looked, all the same.

"And now for the gloves," Lady Tsubaki said, giving her a nod of approval. Meme and Tsugumi each slid a long, silky, opera-length glove up Maka's arms, and twisted her hair up in an elegant arrangement atop her head.

"Take a deep breath, Maka," said Lady Tsubaki, steering her away from the mirror and to the hall. "You're going to do excellently."


	9. Chapter 9

I spoke to the Resbang mods and I will be listed as a late entry, but I still want to get these chapters coming as fast as I can upload them! :) I really appreciate everyone's patience with my slow uploading, and for all your feedback and encouragement. I also appreciate the mods for their hard work!

Warnings for Ch 9: Ox-noxiousness

* * *

Soul and Wes waited in the dining room, which was beginning to fill up with all manner of society patrons and hotel guests.

Those with a keen eye might have observed the younger Mr. Eaton looking distinctly pale and even the Viscount Evans looked a bit more somber than usual (which still meant not _very_ somber). The barrister Kid Mortis looked as refined and calm as usual, even if he did get up every few seconds to subtly work at re-arranging the chairs around the table.

"Now, Soul, you must attend to Miss-er, _Lady_ Albarn, and do not forget that she is a Duchess and so she is above you. Smile at her and nod your head and try not to salivate excessively–"

"Wes! That hasn't been a problem since my youth!"

"Oh, Little Brother, to me you are still a youth…" Wes looked a little misty eyed. "And to think that soon you shall be married off!" he sniffed loudly. Soul rolled his eyes.

"Oh, they must be here!" Wes enthused, and indeed there was Lady Tsubaki entering the dining room and looking elegant as ever in a midnight blue kimono, her hair long and intricately plaited down her back. Meme and Tsugumi ran behind her in their tasteful dinner gowns, holding up her long trailing sleeves so that they did not drag along the floor. _But where was–_

"M-Maka?"

Both Soul and Wes were struck dumb, their jaws agape. Kid appeared unaffected, though his golden eyes _may_ have widened a fraction.

She caught sight of them looking at her and nearly stumbled, before catching herself and following Lady Tsubaki's lead. Every wandering eye settled upon her as her male companions stood to acknowledge the additions to their party.

Kid recovered first, inclining his head politely and pulling out a chair for each of the ladies (although it was possible this was not a mere act of courtesy, but a desperate bid to control the arrangement of chairs). Wes gave a flourishing bow, and elbowed Soul to indicate that he ought to do the same. Soul roused from his dumbstruck reverie with a start and gave a stilted bow that could have been mistaken for his usual severe slouch, if he hadn't spent the evening with an uncomfortably stiff spine prior to that moment.

Maka followed Lady Tsubaki's lead, sinking gracefully to her seat, and looking around the dining room with interest. The sudden movement of a large fan snapping open caught her eye. The owner of the fan was certainly among the most opulent– veering on ostentatious– of the guests Maka had seen thus far, but it was not that which captivated her. The woman managed somehow to appear soft to those around her, even though Maka could sense a steely will and stubborn streak under the endearing (if calculated) exterior. It was a quality Maka had seen in her mother, and more recently in Elizabeth Thompson, and even occasionally in Lady Tsubaki, and something which she hoped to develop in herself as well.

"Who is that?" Maka whispered to Wes, who was nearest to her; she was surprised to see his expression change from pleasant curiosity to abject fear.

* * *

Baroness Kimberly von Diehl led her party into the dining room with her head held high. The restaurant at the Crescent Moon, famous for its dinner dances and its unusual cuisine alike, was an excellent place to see and be seen for London's social elite– and because the Baroness herself was here tonight, it was the _only_ place to be.

"My fan, Jacqueline," she said, and her companion fumbled with the lace contraption before handing it over with a blush. The Baroness snapped it open impatiently and waited for everyone to react. The flourish of her fan had exactly the desired effect– she had drawn the eyes of the room, and now she would execute her carefully-planned expression of candor, turning to Mr. Ford and batting her eyelashes in such a way as to make the majority of the unattached men in the room (and a great deal of the married ones, too) sigh with envy.

"Where shall we sit, Madam?" simpered Mr. Ford, and Kim fought to contain a scowl. Mr. Ford had his uses, certainly, but he was in possession of several bad habits, including that of lingering past his welcome– and inserting himself into moments that would be better spent with Jacqueline, and Jacqueline _alone_. What use was coming to a hotel and sharing a private room with your companion when you had a friend as nosy and persistent as Ox Ford?

These were the thoughts on her mind as she snapped at him that he could decide. These thoughts were the reason she did not immediately recognize the present danger lurking in the form of one Viscount Evans.

Those who were brave enough to gossip about the Baroness usually focused on the murky details surrounding her late husband, the circumstances leading to their marriage, and the suddenness of his death after the vows were said. This was to be expected, and if the Baroness was being honest, sometimes it was even relished. But there was another piece of gossip far more insidious and potentially more destructive to her reputation that had yet to be gleaned from the annals of the society columns or the ever-watchful legions of loose-lipped servants.

That secret involved a rather disastrous and entirely embarrassing (and altogether much too drunken) failed attempt at a tryst with the Viscount Evans, and it was a secret whose keeping she enforced on pain of death, a promise she had extracted from one Wesley Eaton under significant duress. There were certain parts of his body he valued more than others, and she had threatened a part he had no plans to sacrifice.

Thus, no onlookers could discern the reasoning behind the Viscount's sudden look of terror, or his edging toward the nearest exit upon first sight of the Baroness. Neither could they account for the icy stare she leveled at him, or the way her companion frowned as she looked between the both of them, eyes flashing possessively.

Ox Ford, for his part, had caught sight of himself in the reflection from a shining silver platter, and was lost in thoughts of what he ought to do about his hair. _What would Kim like best?_ He was unaware that what Kim wished for more than anything was to be at least a continent away from her most embarrassing failed conquest. And it was with this blissful ignorance that he suggested they join Lady Tsubaki at her table for dinner. "After all, there is no one else here who is worthy to sit in your presence, Madam."

* * *

As the Baroness, Jacqueline, and Mr. Ford made their way to Lady Tsubaki's table, it may be noted that the Viscount, realizing that escape was futile, appeared to resign himself to whatever fate had in store.

But no fate could be as cruel as a Baroness scorned (or perhaps simply embarrassed). While he prepared himself to smirk and flirt with all the gusto he could muster, she breezed past him to kiss Soul on both cheeks and offer the same greeting to Lady Tsubaki.

Wesley Eaton possessed talent for a great many things. He did not, however, possess the fortitude to withstand being ignored, much less _passed over_ for those around him. The cogs in his devious little brain were turning ferociously, and as he glanced around the table and his eyes lit upon Maka, the fuse to an incredibly destructive bomb was lit.

His smile stretched wider and wider as he fought to contain his rising glee. "My dearest Lady Albarn," he drawled, "You really must tell the Baroness what you told me earlier!"

Maka looked confused and a little panicked. She laughed nervously. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, about the fashions in Paris this year– and how you had forgotten all about those little fans Londoners sometimes wear! What did you say it was– oh yes, it was _quaint_ , I believe that is how you described it."

The Baroness flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet and Wes' smile grew even larger.

"Err, yes, indeed. Quite so." Maka's eyes were darting around, but the distress alarms she was sending out to her dinnermates were going unheard. The gentleman with the strange hair, Mr. Ford, was busy being introduced to Soul, and Lady Tsubaki was graciously receiving the Baroness' companion, Jacqueline. Kid was fussing at Meme for her hair, which was escaping its pins and flopping to the side absurdly. Tsugumi was trying her level best to draw Kid's attention to Maka, but he would not be swayed from his purpose until Meme had fixed her sloppiness.

"And you also said that in Paris, no one would be caught _dead_ with such a fan!"

Maka turned a bright scarlet. "Did I… really say all that?" she mumbled faintly.

The face of the Baroness was now a darker shade of pink than her hair, and she made an angry little squeak, somewhere between a grown and a screech, that finally alerted the guests assembled at the table to the brewing tempest.

"Yes, of course. But if there is one thing to say about the Baroness Diehl, it is that her bravery is unmatched– why, some would even suggest she has no shame–" At this point everyone was sending warning looks to Wes, in varying degrees of urgency. Soul was engaging Kid in a silent conversation– it appeared that their strategy would be for Soul to step between Maka and the Baroness, and for Kid to rein Wes in.

Everyone else looked between the Baroness, Wes, and Maka as if watching a three-sided game of tennis.

"Is it really _the Baroness_ who has no shame?" Maka said pointedly, and the implication was clear, to everyone but Wes.

"Yes. But it was so gracious of you, Lady Albarn, to acknowledge the Baroness in the first place. I am sure she is much indebted to you–"

At that point Soul and Kid sprang into action. Soul stood up and "tripped", flinging a glass of water all over Wes. Kid leapt over to "contain the damage", firmly inserting himself in front of Wes, while Soul steered "Lady Albarn" in the direction of the ladies' room, where she could "recover" from the shock of nearly being doused.

The Baroness and her companions had no choice but to take a seat, and the silence that extended over the table was unbearable until the ever-graceful Lady Tsubaki took control of the runaway conversation and smoothed things over in the way that only she could.

* * *

Meanwhile, Maka's fingers were digging painfully into Soul's arm as he dragged her behind a grove of potted ficus for an emergency meeting.

"What the bloody hell was your brother–"

"It's a long story– he and the Baroness– have a history. It's not your fault, God. I can't believe he dragged you into this. I should have stopped him sooner. I'm so sorry, Maka–"

Maka shook her head. "It's not your fault. But I'm certain the Baroness hates me now."

"She probably does, but we'll smooth things over in time. There is one thing, though, that you need to be careful about."

Maka felt dread settling into her stomach. Tonight had been poised to go so well– and it was swiftly becoming ruined. "What is it?"

"That gentleman, Ox Ford. Stay away from him."

"Why?"

"I thought I recognized him when I saw him– and it turns out I was right. He's a social detective, of sorts. On paper he is a distinguished Professor of Linguistics, but he works with London's elite to discover imposters and dig up scandal."

"There are people who do that?" Maka gasped. "But why?"

Soul shrugged. "Marriage and business deals involve heavy investment, and investors want to know potential scandals before they come out. Say, for instance, if you had a relation who left the family to become a woman of ill repute– or if you had an uncle who found himself ensnared by opium. If your mother wasn't really a Countess, but a merchant's daughter from the docks…"

"So, he's trained to spot people like _me_?" she whispered in terror.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "We'll do everything we can," he stopped and shook his head, flushing a little. " _I_ will do everything _I_ can to protect you from him."

* * *

They returned to the table to find that things had calmed down marginally. Wes was still grinning like the cat who got the cream and the Baroness was studiously ignoring him.

Once Maka approached the table, she felt a spike of terror shoot through her. She had expected to be ignored or even snubbed by the Baroness, but what happened was infinitely more terrifying.

Kimberly von Diehl turned to Maka at once and flashed a brilliant and _utterly_ sinister smile.

"Lady Albarn!" the pink-haired woman trilled brightly. Maka swallowed and managed a weak smile in acknowledgement.

"I am so glad to have finally met you," the Baroness began. She stuck out her gloved hand and Maka hesitated. What was she supposed to do with this hand? _Kiss it_?! She was pretty sure that she was at least equal to the Baroness in (pretend) rank, and what woman kissed anyone's hand, anyway?! It wasn't exactly as if she should kiss the ring of the Baroness like one might a _queen_.

 _Oh, Bloody Hell_. Maka stared for a minute and finally settled on shaking the Baroness' hand.

"Charmed, quite charmed," Maka murmured softly.

"Likewise, I'm sure," replied the Baroness, still with that sickly sweet smile plastered upon her features. There was something predatory in her gaze as she watched Maka take her seat. "You must tell me all about yourself. We are going to become the _best_ of friends, I am quite certain of it."

Maka was quite certain they were _not_ , but the others were desperately engaging with Wes and Mr. Ford, keeping them from making the situation any worse, and she realized she was on her own.

She tried to keep up with the Baroness' questions and to change the subject whenever the conversation turned to topics which might give away her lack of experience, but by the time dinner was over, she was a nervous wreck. It was with great relief to Maka that the Baroness stood and invited Mr. Ford to dance with her.

* * *

Ox was utterly delighted that his darling Kim had the tenacity to ask him to dance. As he led her in a slow waltz, he wondered if it was because of his brilliant conversation skills tonight, or the shine he had applied to the top of his head before dinner. It had seemed certain to attract the ladies, and Ox congratulated himself on his stroke of genius, for it appeared he had been right, as usual.

They waltzed into a far corner and the Baroness dragged him away to the punch bowl.

"Ox," she hissed, and under normal circumstances he would have been over the moon at her use of such a familiarity, but something in her tone told him this wasn't quite a cause for celebration.

"I need you to find out who that Albarn girl is. I'm going to _ruin_ her."

"My dearest Kimberly, _if_ I may be so bold, consider it already done." He gave a deep bow and was rewarded with a satisfied smirk from the object of his desire.

"Get me the information I need, and you may find that you can be even bolder still," she promised sweetly and Ox felt as if his entire body were being electrified.

The song ended and he found himself reluctant to release her hand. "Another dance, milady?" he crooned.

To his annoyance, Jacqueline chose that moment to cut in and complain to Kim that she was too hot in the ballroom, and would the Baroness please come with her to get some air?

Kim didn't hesitate to flounce off with her companion, and as he watched her leave, Ox felt his resolve grow. He would win her heart. He would learn whatever he needed about Miss Albarn– whatever it took to make the Baroness happy.


	10. Chapter 10

Warnings for Ch 10: mentions of alcohol and brief references to drunken Wes, Soul angsting

* * *

By the time dinner ended, Wes Eaton had gotten entirely too drunk on champagne and Baroness-induced terror, and was embarrassing everyone even more than usual. Soul was still fuming about the position his brother had put Maka in, and so he foisted Wes onto Kid at the end of the night and walked with her around the lobby instead of accompanying his brother upstairs.

They spent some time reviewing Maka's performance that evening but they were both too depressed about the Baroness situation to continue that line of conversation for very long. Eventually they lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was then that Maka remembered Soul's gift to her earlier that afternoon.

"I got the books," she said. "Thank you so much. They– smelled so good."

"Uh, what?" he asked.

Maka blushed bright red, she could feel it. "That… wasn't what I meant to say. Sorry. I–"

Soul was grinning now, ear to ear, as he leaned forward, invading her personal space and causing her heart to pound. "Don't tell me the great Lady Albarn is embarrassed?" he whispered, and she swatted playfully at his hand as he reached out and gently tugged one of the twin curls framing her face.

"Thank you for the books! Can we change the subject!" she pleaded, burying her head in her hands to hide her blush.

He laughed a little. "You're the one who brought it up."

"Well, now it's your turn to say something," she challenged. "We've exhausted the topic of books."

"I didn't expect to hear you say that in this lifetime."

They passed the part of the lobby that led to the card rooms and banquet hall. Beyond that, they both knew there was a piano, and they walked quietly, each very aware of the other as they lost themselves in solemn remembrance of the night Soul had played.

"I need to learn how to dance," Maka said softly.

"Huh? What made you think of that?"

"I was just thinking– If Ox Ford asks me to dance and I trip all over myself, we'll have a difficult time keeping up this charade."

"You won't trip all over yourself," Soul scoffed. "Wes and Kid couldn't stop talking about what a success you were this afternoon, gliding around the banquet hall and curtsying."

"Yes, well." Maka blew a strand of hair out of her face and jutted her lip out despondently. "What they neglected to mention was that despite my proficiency at walking, our dancing efforts were a complete failure."

"Don't worry, it just takes practice," he assured her. "When I first learned, it was a nightmare. But eventually you'll get the hang of it."

"Why don't you teach me?" She was so eager she spun to face him and he stumbled backwards, knocked a little off-balance by her enthusiasm.

"I– I don't like to dance–" he protested.

"But Soul, maybe you can succeed where Wes and Kid could not–"

"That's never happened," Soul said darkly. "And I meant it– I really don't like to dance."

"Why not?"

"I don't like ...performing for people. And that's what it reminds me of– a performance. There's always some appearance to keep up, some onlookers waiting to tear you apart. It's never about what you want or how you feel, it's just for show. I hate that."

Maka nodded, disappointed. Soul looked a little guilty for rejecting her, but he made no move to change his position on the matter.

They had reached the door which surely led to the piano room. Beyond this was only the end of the hall, so they would soon have to turn around and go back the way they'd come. Unless…

"Soul? What if– what if you taught me to dance where no one could see us?"

"Haah?" he blinked at her.

"We can practice in the piano room." He stared at her for a moment and she fidgeted. "Unless you– need to go to bed, or–"

"No," he said fervently. "I don't want to go upstairs. Wes is a nightmare to put to bed when he's drunk."

"So, why not?"

"Are you– are you sure you aren't– uncomfortable with–" he glanced at the door to the piano room and the implication was clear– the first time they had interacted in the adjoining banquet hall, it had been by accident. To meet in a private room, _deliberately_ , at night, seemed to hold scandalous potential that could hardly be ignored.

Maka just rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand. "Come on," she told him, and he followed helplessly as she dragged him into the piano room. "It's only dancing."

* * *

Her words were confident, but once they were actually standing in the piano room, Maka thought perhaps her initial decision had been a little rash. Soul shuffled awkwardly, pointedly looking anywhere but at her, and the dimness of the room, lit only by flickering lanterns and the occasional candle, lent an air of hushed intimacy to the space that sent warning signals roaring up her spine.

"Oh. I've–never actually been in here," she said. The floor was all black and red marble, and soft red velvet drapes adorned the walls and corners. The piano sat innocently in the corner, as if it hadn't drawn her in like a siren calling a sailor when she'd heard Soul playing.

Soul grunted in acknowledgement, apparently waiting on her signal to begin the dancing lesson. Suddenly shy, Maka glanced around the room for some distraction. "A phonograph!" she cried loudly, rushing over to it. "Do you know how it works?"

"Of course," Soul scoffed. He walked over to join her and examined the small collection of disc records beside the apparatus with enthusiasm. Maka smiled. As much as Soul protested against performing, it was clear he had a deep love of music.

"There are various types of gramophones, or phonographs, if you like," he told her, placing one of the discs onto the machine. "This one is new technology– it uses discs rather than cylinders, and has a starter to activate the needle." He showed her how to pull the starter and place the needle, and she squeaked in satisfaction as the needle began to skip along the disc all on its own. "This is fascinating!" she clapped her hands together and stepped back. "And there is really a song stored on that disc?"

Soul rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yes. The grooves on the disc are like a physical version of the sound that was made during recording. So if you reverse the process, during playback the needle presses against the grooves in the disc, producing a vibration which is amplified by the horn."

Sure enough, a scratchy song was beginning to play, something with a light piano that would be perfect for dancing.

"These discs only last for a few minutes though," he told her. "So, er, we should probably begin."

"Oh, alright… uh." Maka twisted her hands anxiously. "Well, come here then."

Soul visibly gulped as he walked over to take her hands in his. She gave him a look that was both pleading and defiant. "I just want to get this right." Soul nodded and they began to step in accordance with the music on the phonograph.

Maka lost track of time briefly, caught up in not stepping on her partner's toes and repeating the disaster she had wrought on Wes and Kid earlier that day. Soul was hesitant and seemed afraid of overstepping, and as a result they stumbled a little during what should have been a simple turn.

Frustrated with his unwillingness to take the lead, or to bring himself into a reasonable proximity, she slowed and he followed suit.

"What's the matter, Maka?" His grip on her hands was gentle, and he began to pull away, but she held tight. "Something isn't right," she told him.

"It's..."

He followed her gaze to their clasped hands as she continued. "Aren't you supposed to– isn't the man supposed to–be much closer?"

There was a pause during which she hardly dared breathe.

One of his hands slid out of her grip as he stepped back. _Would he upbraid her for her familiarity? They were supposed to be involved, weren't they, and this was a large part of that, right?_ She fought to keep the disappointment from her voice. "I-I mean, I had thought, to make it look–"

Then she was being pulled toward him, into his chest. He continued holding one of her hands in his, but he finally slid his other hand around her waist, settling on the small of her back.

"–Convincing?" he finished for her, and she nodded.

They stood there, neither daring to move at first. She was sure he could hear the pounding of her heart and she desperately hoped that the sweat on her palms wouldn't soak through her gloves. He was close enough that she could smell his aftershave, feel the heat of his skin radiating between them, and his arm around her waist was far more distracting than she had given it leave to be.

The phonograph skipped and crackled, and still they stood there. She swallowed her nerves and opened her mouth to speak.

"You're right," he murmured, before she could say a word. He said it so quietly, it was almost inaudible, but she was so attuned to him that she almost felt as though she was reading his thoughts.

"It's better this way," he intoned. "We can feel each other and the music as we dance."

She suppressed a shiver. His low voice was doing things to her that she didn't dare think about.

"You'll have to lead, I don't know what I'm doing," she nearly begged.

"I do," he assured her.

And then they began to dance in earnest. She fought her instinct to steer Soul and haul him around the room, and he waited patiently for her to cede control. She stopped waiting for the moment where her foot would slip, for the moment when some stumble would send her flying backward onto her behind. Soul kept the rhythm and she realized she wouldn't fall.

"It feels like– this is–" she panted as he spun her away from him, only to end with her enfolded within his arms as he brought her close again. It was unlike anything she had experienced outside of novels– exhilarating and mesmerizing all at once.

"You don't need to say anything," he said softly, and his breath fanned lightly over her ear. "Just listen to the music."

She wasn't sure what he meant, because the needle on the phonograph was beating a scratchy tattoo on the disc and producing a repetitive, crackling noise that was like no music she had ever known anyone to dance to. It was stuck on a groove, producing a perpetual, unfinished loop, a moment suspended in time and doomed to repeat itself endlessly.

But when she closed her eyes, it was almost like there was a sort of music– some resonance, on a deeper level, between them.

It was so different from dancing with Wes or with Kid. Wes had been domineering, overriding her hesitations and pulling and pushing her around the room in a seemingly effortless twirl that nonetheless left her feeling defensive. Kid had been stiff and precise, so that she was able to get the footwork but she lacked any real grace or feeling in her movement with him.

But with _Soul_ , she was neither defensive nor self-conscious. He wouldn't try to haul her around– he simply waited for her to open herself up to his guidance.

 _It felt a lot like trust._

And it was that, more than anything, that terrified Maka Albarn.

"Ouch!" They broke apart as the heel of her foot speared his innocent toe.

The spell had been broken.

"I'm so sorry," she told him, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in horror as he winced in pain.

"It's fine," he assured her, but she saw him grimace when he tried to put weight on his foot.

"Perhaps we'd better stop for now," she suggested, and he nodded reluctantly.

"We'll practice more tomorrow," he promised. "And perhaps you can wear slippers until you're more familiar with the process."

* * *

Despite his throbbing toe, Soul retired to his room in better spirits than he had been at the start of the evening. The suite he shared with his brother (and occasionally Kid) was darkened when he entered, so he assumed that Kid must have successfully wrangled Wes into bed and then dozed off himself.

Soul went into his own room and dressed for bed, but sleep would not take him.

He wondered if Maka was still awake. And if she were, what was she doing now? He smirked. _Probably reading, that bookworm._

He wondered if she liked the books he'd gotten her, if she'd had a chance to read any of them yet. He would ask her tomorrow, perhaps. Maybe she would practice her speech by reading to him some more– he liked listening to her speak, her voice soft and clear and confident all at once. He liked a great many things about Miss Albarn, he thought, with a rising sense of doom.

In the beginning, it had been easy to dismiss his feelings as simple admiration on the silliest and most surface of levels, as any man might. Of course, he'd always known that she was pretty– she had been pretty when they met on the train and she was stealing his sandwiches and pouting over losing at poker, she had been even prettier the next time he'd seen her, at Kid's office, when she was drenched in rainwater and spitting mad. And when he'd seen her enter the dining room tonight, his mouth had gone dry and his heart had certainly given a painful thump.

But the awareness of her attractiveness and his corresponding reactions would not ordinarily be enough to cause him such distress. He _knew_ how to handle a pretty girl– and it typically involved glowering, sarcasm, and a good measure of self-loathing on his part. It had worked magnificently at scaring away people in the past, but not quite so well with Maka.

She'd come crashing into his life with the force of a bull in a china shop, twisted everyone around her little finger, and somehow wormed her way into his heart. He'd never seen someone else spurn his brother's flirtations so thoroughly, or go toe to toe with Kid in an intellectual sparring match and win. Indeed, he'd never had anyone read to him from a novel in one moment and hit him over the head with it the next. Maka was the first person, besides Wes, to listen to his music and enjoy it. He admired her spirit, her conviction, her intellect, and her willingness to see beyond the faulty exteriors and thin veneers so commonly upheld by people of society, and cut to the heart of the person beneath.

Soul groaned. It was fitting that he should develop an interest in a woman so thoroughly out of his reach, and then be forced to pose as her admirer in order to win the heart of another. He made a decision, then and there, to stop indulging his foolish fantasies about Miss Albarn, no matter the difficulty. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen didn't pine for women they could never have.

* * *

AN: Whew, that one of of my favorite chapters to write :) I hope you all liked it! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, faved, reblogged, and liked the story so far! Please leave me a review if you get the chance so I know what you thought!


	11. Chapter 11

Warnings for Ch 11: I've enjoyed lulling you all into a false sense of security, but this chap contains temperature-related suffering, acute peril, and drowning danger :)

* * *

The invitation came several days later, as Maka was eating breakfast in Lady Tsubaki's suite. The hotel matriarch reached over a pile of Danish pastries and fruit to hand her a pink envelope sealed with the wax likeness of a raccoon. She looked at Lady Tsubaki questioningly. "Go ahead and open it, Maka. It's addressed to you," came the heiress's response.

In curling golden script, the invitation announced that The Baroness Kimberly von Diehl was humbly requesting the pleasure of her attendance at a garden party.

"Well, what do you think? Ought I to go?" Maka asked. "Do you think Wes and Soul were invited as well?"

"Oh, I'm certain they were," said Lady Tsubaki. "My own invitation came this morning. Everyone in London society will be there, so naturally we all will have to attend as well."

And so it was that they began to prepare for her first real debut into society.

* * *

"Please tell me you aren't going to make me wear this, Wes," moaned Maka.

Her dress for the garden party was nice enough: Kid and Wes had selected a white lace dress with an intricately ruffled blouse and a light, floaty skirt. The ensemble was trimmed in black and crowned with a pink and black striped bow at her collar. But the _hat_!

It was the most enormous hat Maka had ever seen, with feathers and giant purple pansies plastered over the brim and bright vines of ivy trailing from the back. Worst of all, atop the extravagant chapeau perched an entire pink _tea set_ , somehow arranged so that the china set did not topple the minute she set the thing on her head. But she still felt dreadfully foolish in it.

"I could injure someone in this," she complained.

"You will only injure my pride if you continue to protest," warned Wes. "We need to make a statement. Anya is known for her taste in fashion and the Baroness will surely pass the word on to her".

"But why would you want Anya to know about this? It's embarrassing!"

"Because, we need you to be in her frame of vision before she ever lays eyes on you with Soul. She simply must hear of you before being introduced. There's nothing worse than not having a reputation to precede you."

Soul rolled his eyes at Maka, who scowled but nonetheless acquiesced to Wes' latest insane wishes.

* * *

The garden party was being held several hours away, in the footmen led them from their carriage to the edge of a wooded area, where they met the proprietor of the picnic destination, a genial man named Joe Buttataki. He led the party to a clearing, passing a babbling brook along the way.

"All the fish that will be served today were caught in this very stream," announced Joe.

"It doesn't look deep enough for fish," Soul exclaimed doubtfully.

"Not here, but there is a bend further downstream where the brook meets a river. There's also a great water wheel that powers the village, too."

Maka was interested in the mechanics of the water wheel and pressed him for details, until Lady Tsubaki suggested they get seated with the rest of the guests.

They watched as a tall, stately man with long hair appeared, followed by two little girls. One of them pounced on his back and he dutifully carried her to and fro, even as she appeared to be choking him slightly with her strong grip. Maka turned to Lady Tsubaki. "Who is that?"

"Mr. Mifune! It is so nice to see him in attendance– he is a very important guest in our hotel. He has many dealings with my family, but I must confess I get as much joy from seeing him with his young daughter as from hosting him!"

"He seems to be a very devoted parent," Maka agreed.

"Yes, and so lovely that Miss Hepburn's sister, Rachel, is such close friends with his daughter, Angela!"

"Oh, is Miss Hepburn here today?" Maka kept her voice steady but inside she was all nerves. What would she do if Anya was here?

Lady Tsubaki laughed gently and set down her teacup. "No, from what I hear, she is traveling at the moment, but the family has given Rachel leave to stay with Mr. Mifune and Angela for the next week, until she returns."

Lady Tsubaki continued briefing Maka on the identities of the guests while the footmen busied themselves spreading out enormous swaths of fabric, stretching over the flat and grassy areas, where the guests could take in the cool breeze and keep an eye on the children.

"Oh! Poor Wes," giggled Lady Tsubaki, and Maka followed her gaze to where Wes was animatedly chatting with a good-looking young man. "Feodor is such a dear, but his friend, Tsar Pushka, is quite jealous of anyone who attempts to get between them." Sure enough, a rotund man with a large nose and bushy mustache was making his angry way towards the unsuspecting Wes. Maka wondered if she ought to get his attention somehow and rescue him, but then she remembered the embarrassing hat he was forcing her to wear and her charitable inclinations evaporated.

Soul walked over with a cup of tea and a warning. "Get ready, Maka," he whispered.

She turned to see the Baroness von Diehl strolling towards them, with Jacqueline in tow. Behind her was a small crowd of guests– Maka recognized Mr. Ford from dinner at the hotel, but she was unacquainted with the four others beside him. Wes, who had been approaching Maka's group with the clear intention of joining them at their seats, caught sight of the Baroness and speedily backpedaled, right into the considerable girth of Tsar Pushka. Maka sighed. At least now he couldn't come and ruin another interaction with the Baroness, although the angry expression on the Tsar's face made her worry for Wes's safety.

"Lady Albarn, I am delighted to have you here with us today," said the Baroness. "Might I introduce some dear friends of mine?" She gestured to a handsome, dark skinned man holding hands with a pair of young children. "This is Mr. Rung, emissary to Morocco, and his wards, Fiona and Theodore. They are here visiting _Monsieur_ D'Eclair." She indicated a reserved gentleman who stood coolly back from the crowd. "He and Mr. Ford are working to catalogue the various dialects of Western Africa, isn't that fascinating?"

"Yes, that's very–" Maka began to answer, but she was cut off by the Baroness. "–Now, you must tell me all about this hat of yours. It makes quite the ...statement."

Maka narrowed her eyes. She knew a threat when she heard one. "I'll take that as a compliment coming from you, Baroness. I never saw a woman who could pull off a skunk fur muff... until you, of course. So daring."

The Baroness blushed bright scarlet with irritation. "It's _raccoon_!"

Maka heard Soul snort loudly into his teacup and then try to cover it with a cough.

Tsugumi and Meme rushed over and begged the Baroness to know when the cake would be cut, causing Lady Tsubaki to scold the girls gently. "Not until all the guests have joined us. Why don't you find something to keep yourselves occupied with until then? Like the other girls," she told them, smiling fondly at Angela and Rachel, who were now scrambling around the embankment, busy snapping a fallen bough into lengths for walking sticks.

Maka saw the way Lady Tsubaki's eyes sparkled when she spoke about the children, and she wondered if Lady Tsubaki longed for children of her own. It felt too rude to ask. If Lady Tsubaki married, surely control over the hotel inheritance would go to her husband, and she would be consigning herself to a life lacking the independence she currently enjoyed.

 _All the more reason for women of all classes to unite around the Suffragist cause_ , she thought. Her time among London's elite had demonstrated that rich women did not have it easy, either– just a glance at her unbearable hat was evidence enough of that.

To her great relief, the teacups on Maka's head were almost forgotten once actual tea was served. Tsugumi and Meme squealed in delight at the sugared violets covering the tea cakes, before briefly tussling over who would get the cupcake with the enormous rose made from icing.

"Girls, food is served!" called Lady Tsubaki towards the river. "I'm surprised they weren't here waiting with Tsugumi and Meme for the cake!" she giggled.

Soul's brow furrowed. "They've been gone a long time."

"The tea will be cold if they don't hurry," replied Lady Tsubaki. "Maka, what are you having?"

Maka selected a strawberry tart with buttercream frosting and a sandwich cake filled with lemon custard.

Her hat tipped precariously as she leaned forward to take a bite and she sighed. A quick glance around told her that Wes was still busy trying to escape Tsar Pushka, who appeared to be cursing him in Russian.

"I've got to take this thing off. Soul, would you mind?"

He jumped when she said his name and she wondered if she was imagining the faint flush on his cheeks. Why had he been staring at her mouth?

She subtly checked her face for any trace of crumbs as he administered to her hat, but found none.

She was just about to ask him if there was frosting on her nose when Angela came running and screaming into the middle of the party.

"Someone come quick! Rachel's fallen into the river!" Her words rang through the party like a pistol shot.

The guests cried out in alarm and jumped to their feet, with everyone but Maka and Soul rushing in the direction of Angela's voice.

Soul was still holding her hat, but he pulled it off as she scrambled to a standing position. "Soul!" Maka cried, "The river flows past a bend– Mr. Buttataki told me about it, we've got to go this way!" She motioned towards the area of the river Joe had told her about.

Soul paused for a half second to throw down her hat, and then he was running after Maka, who had lifted her skirts and dashed off to where she thought Rachel might be carried.

Her instincts were good– she could hear Rachel screaming for help the closer she got, and she threw herself into the brush surrounding the riverbed, ignoring the way her skirt caught and tore on the thorny branches. There was no clear path to the river here, and so she had to fight her way through thistle and shrub before she came to the embankment. Soul came crashing in after her, and they reached the bend in time to see a small blonde head bobbing on the surface of the rushing water.

Rachel was struggling to keep ahold of a fallen tree branch, which the current must have cast her into. Maka sent a silent message of gratitude out into the universe that the girl had had the sense to grab onto something. This part of the river was deep and wide, and there were jagged rocks jutting out at every angle, ready to wound anyone caught in the undertow.

Rachel was safe for now, but if she let go, she might be dashed upon the rocks or sucked into the crushing weight of the water wheel.

Maka's fingers worked at the buttons of her blouse. "Soul, help me undress," she commanded. "I'm going after Rachel."

"Maka, are you insane?! It's too dangerous! You'll be swept away by the current and drowned!" He stepped in front of her, as if to stop her, but she paid him no mind, tearing off her blouse and beginning to work on her skirt and petticoat.

"Rachel can't hold on for much longer."

"Then let me go," he pleaded.

"I need you to stay here and pull us back out. You're strong enough to do it, and I'm not."

"But–"

"Soul." She turned to him. "I trust you. I know you'll be able to get us out. I _know_ I'll be alright."

Rachel's screaming was becoming more desperate, and her voice was ragged from choking on water.

He looked agonized, but she didn't have time to argue with him. "Please help me untie my corset. I need the lacing to tie Rachel and myself to the branch in case we can't hold on."

She turned around and he began to silently unlace her corset. She knew he was exceedingly distressed, but he had not become a pianist for nothing– his fingers were steady and nimble as they rapidly plucked apart the laces.

She breathed in a great lungful of air once the corset slid off her body. She shivered a little, feeling the cold air on her bare skin. Under different circumstances it would be mortifying, standing here in just her thin cotton chemise and drawers, but at least now she would have a chance at reaching Rachel without being dragged down by layers and layers of clothing. She took the lacing Soul handed her and wound it around her waist several times, tying it in a loose knot.

Maka walked up the bank, so that the current would take her downstream toward Rachel, and took a calming breath at the edge of the water, preparing to leap. "Wait," Soul said, coming up behind her and placing his hands steadily on her shoulders. "Be careful, Maka. _Promise_."

She closed her eyes for a second, but only a second, knowing that he couldn't see, and nodded. "I promise."

Then she was wading into the water. The icy shock spreading up her body made her limbs seize up and stunned her for a moment. She stumbled on a rock and lost her balance– and then she was being dragged into the current, pulled headlong into the thickest and deepest part of the river.

"Maka!" came Soul's anguished cry when she surfaced. "Are you okay?!"

"I'm okay!" she screamed, just managing to grab ahold of a large rock and pull herself against it so that the current pinned her in place.

"Get ready, find something to pull us out!" she told him.

"I'll be right back!" he yelled, and then he disappeared from view. She could see Rachel, still clinging to the branch just a little upstream. "Rachel!" She yelled as loud as she could, hoping she would still be heard over the rushing of the river. "Hold on tight! I'm going to get you!"

The little girl tried to tighten her grip on the branch, but she only succeeded in twisting it so that it came unlodged from its mooring. With a cry, the girl scrabbled uselessly around her.

"Soul, hurry!" Maka screamed. "Do something!"

She could see him on the bank, panting with effort as he worked at pushing a large sapling into the water. The current nearly drove it away, but Maka grabbed on and, together with Soul, she held it steady.

"Rachel, grab ahold!" She could see the child struggling with the water, trying to stay afloat as she drifted closer and closer. But there was no way Rachel would be able to grab ahold. She was still too far out.

"Hold on, tight, Soul! Don't let us go!" She inched her way out along the branch, trying not to let herself be carried downstream. Soul, for his part, held the branch tight.

Maka yelled in triumph when her hand closed around the little girl's wrist.

"You're safe now! Don't let go, Rachel!" she shouted. The girl locked her arms around Maka's neck and clamped her legs around her stomach, sobbing all the while.

"Soul, you've got to get us out soon," Maka yelled. "Neither of us is used to this freezing water, and she's been in here longer than I have!"

"Tie yourselves to the tree and I'll haul you in," he yelled back.

She spoke to Rachel, trying to sound calm. "Rachel, I have to let go for a second, and I need you to be very brave and hold onto me with all your might. Can you do that?"

Rachel did not respond except to grip tighter, and Maka was satisfied that her message had been received.

Her fingers felt clumsy and numb as she struggled to untie the knot around her waist. She fumbled repeatedly and her teeth began to chatter. In the end, she managed to tie herself to the branch, with Rachel sandwiched between them.

By this time, a small crowd was gathering around Soul on the bank, and he was joined by several strong men who helped steady the sapling and pull them back to shore.

Later she would wonder how, in the freezing water, she had possessed the fortitude and agility to do any of it– her extremities were numb to the bone and the water made everything slippery. But that curious hormone she'd read about– adrenaline– must have been responsible for that, as well as helping to keep her from collapsing in shock once Soul and the others had hauled her and Rachel to the embankment.

Maka waited for Soul to untie Rachel and hand her off to an anxious circle of guests. Once she saw Wes rush forward with blankets to scoop Rachel into his arms, all the fight left her, and she sagged against the branch, her clothes still swirling around numb legs and arms. She couldn't even bring herself to scramble up onto the bank.

She barely noticed strong hands grasping her by the armpits and dragging her clean out of the water and onto land. Suddenly her world was warm and dry and breathing and _man_ and two arms enfolding her in their embrace. She was unsure how long she stood there, propped up against Soul's chest, his arms around her (to steady her, nothing more) in what would appear to any onlooker as the most prurient of public displays of affection.

Angela was crying, perfectly convinced that she had been about to witness the death of her dearest friend, and even the adults looked suitably pale. The Baroness was calling for more blankets and Joe Buttataki was obliged to run for the lodge, ready to stoke a fire and prepare for a flurry of concerned guests.

Maka stood frozen, almost literally, as the moisture from her hair and face dripped all over Soul's waistcoat. And still he held her, gently, as though she might break.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Someone fetch my coat. It's on the bank up a ways."

Maka felt a weight settle over her shoulders as Soul's coat was lowered onto her, and then he was supporting her, half carrying her, half dragging her, along with the rest of the party to the lodge where there would be fire and tea and blankets.

People kept asking if she was alright but her teeth were chattering too badly to answer.

She rather wished they would stop– it would be so much better to go to sleep, to crumple up like a folding leaf and let everyone continue on and leave her in peace. She was tired and she simply wanted to rest– she didn't want to keep tripping along like this with her side glued uncomfortably to Soul, squashed beneath his armpit and stifled in the overwhelming sensation of his coat and his arms and his body around her.

It helped if she closed her eyes a little.

* * *

come on, it wouldn't be a SE fic without a lil' action

but really, this chapter was very nervewracking to write and I worried a lot about how to pull it off

Thanks for reading and please review if you enjoyed it! (Or didn't?)


	12. Chapter 12

Warnings for Ch 12: Fever dreams and suffering :(

* * *

 _ _She was on fire– every nerve in her body felt as though it were being stabbed through with needles. The pinpricks she had received from Madame Mjolnir during her dress fittings had been nothing compared to this. She was certain she was screaming and screaming, but no sounds came forth.__

 _There was only silence and the sensation of burning, burning._

 _Eventually the silence began to be punctuated with murmuring and the sounds of a crackling fire... She dreamed of devils, lining up to poke her with pitchforks, and they all had the face of Mr. Smith. They danced around to a chorus of "Papa Loves You the Most!" and then she was covered all in feathers and Wes and Kid began to pluck them out, one by one._ _The devils were plucking at her now, too, tearing at her clothes and hair and skin._

 _And suddenly, like a single drop of water on the fire, there was a sound that had nothing to do with their taunting._

 _It was a piano note._

 _It was faint, almost enough to make her think she imagined it, but she grabbed ahold of it and focused all her energy on following the note, letting herself devote all her attention to the pure sound of it ringing out all around her._ _Other notes followed, and these gave her courage._

* * *

After an indeterminate amount of time, Maka drifted to the surface of consciousness. Sensations came slowly, like a spool of thread falling down a sloped surface and unraveling without anyone noticing its path. There was scratchy wool tickling her chin and a cramp in her leg. Her collarbone was itchy and her jaw cracked with the slow force of her yawn.

She opened her eyes and tried to make sense of her surroundings. Her head was propped up and facing a large, curtained window set into a wood paneled wall. She wanted to sit up and look around, but moving her limbs was harder than Maka expected; someone had apparently swaddled her in layers and layers of heavy, cloying blankets. She contented herself with lifting her head and flopping it to the other side. There was a small piano tucked into a far corner of the room, a merry fire dancing in the hearth, and … softly snoring, lightly drooling, uncomfortably squeezed into an overstuffed chair, was Soul.

She smiled slightly at the vision, then her eyes drifted closed once more.

* * *

She was fully awake when the doctor came. It must have been early morning– for the man shook dew off his hat and a blueish light crept through the gap in the drapes. The housekeeper at the lodge had been in and out all night, tending to the fire, bringing water and cold cloths for Maka's forehead. And Soul had slept soundly throughout the whole ordeal.

However, even the soundest sleeper could not have continued in the face of this newest visitor's raucous entrance. He intended to creep into the room, that she could tell, but he ended up falling backwards and sliding across the rug. The commotion roused Soul from his slumber. He took a moment to look around before colouring violently and slipping out of the room with the haste of a man running from an executioner.

She wanted to hunt him down and talk to him, but first, she had some questions for the man who was busy introducing himself as Dr. Franken Stein. "How long have I been here? Where am I?"

"You're in the lodge at the picnic grounds. From what I understand, you took ill two days ago after jumping into a river."

"Two days ago?!" Maka rubbed her eyes wearily. "I can't have been out that long!"

"Your body went into shock. You had a fever and gave everyone here quite a turn. It's been an endless stream of visitors trying to check in on you, but I ordered that no one be allowed in here until I could conduct my examination." Maka thought she might have remembered some murmuring at her bedside, but everything was still hazy. "It's just too bad, your fever broke late last night," Dr. Stein continued.

"Why is that too bad?"

"The Viscount promised I could use your body for science if you died in my care."

Maka squawked indignantly and the doctor smiled. "Only kidding," he promised, adjusting his glasses.

She wasn't convinced, but she had more important things to worry about. "And where is everyone else?"

"Since I ordered that no one was to be allowed in your room, they've returned back to London."

"Then why was Soul here?"

"Someone had to stay behind to see to your welfare and accompany you back to London, and Mr. Eaton volunteered. The attendants tried to keep him out but he was– very persistent." Maka flushed under Dr. Stein's too-knowing gaze. "He was quite concerned for your welfare. He carried you here, you know."

"No! I walked. I remember…" She trailed off. What exactly did she remember? "He pulled me out of the water and then I wore his coat and he helped me walk…"

"Yes, and then you fainted."

"I did not!" She didn't know why she kept pressing the point, although she guessed it had something to do with the indelicacy of collapsing in a man's arms. She was so much better than that! "I was _resting_ ," she continued stubbornly.

He chuckled and pulled out his medical bag. "Yes, and now you've rested for the past two days; I expect you'll be well enough to thank him when you see him." Maka heartily wished Dr. Stein would stop looking so smug, as if he knew something she didn't. "He wouldn't let you out of his sight. Insisted on keeping watch until you awoke, although he mostly just got in the way."

"I'm sure he felt responsible for my condition, and worried for my safety," Maka said stiffly.

Dr. Stein waved an airy hand. "The maids were in and out, and so was I. He needn't have worried." He adjusted his glasses again and a sinister smile stretched over his face. "I ought to have made him leave after your fever broke. But he looked so comfortable in that chair, I thought it cruel to move him."

 _What a load of poppycock!_ Maka thought uncharitably. That horrible chair looked like Satan himself had engineered it to offer the least comfort possible to the sitter.

"He didn't sleep, when I was–?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"I will," she told him, though she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. How, exactly, did one ask such a thing? He probably felt guilty, and blamed himself for her fever. Yet she could not bring herself to regret it. Even if it _had_ been rather reckless, jumping into the river like that, it was worth it to save a drowning child.

"How is Rachel? Is she alright?"

"Yes, perfectly fine, thanks to you."

She sighed in relief. "Am I well enough to leave?"

"Your color certainly seems to have returned," he observed drily, and she scowled, cursing her fair, reactive skin. "I think the danger has passed. I am confident that this visit will be my last."

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

"Now if I could just dissect, err, inspect, your lungs, I would love to see the result of all that water and hypothermia–"

"Thank you _very much_. I'm afraid I _do_ feel rather tired, if you don't mind, I'll be going to sleep now, thank you... You'll have to excuse me," she said hurriedly.

Dr. Stein looked slightly crestfallen but he moved toward the door. "Take care," he told her, and adjusted his glasses in farewell, the way other men tipped their hats.

She couldn't help but sigh in relief once he was gone. She wasn't really tired. In fact, she felt restless and full of anxious energy. The need to get up, to get moving, overcame her. Suddenly she couldn't stand to sit still another second.

Once she was certain that Dr. Stein had left for good, she got out of bed and opened the curtains wide. Heavy rain had painted the landscape in muddy browns and grays, and she was thankful for the stout fireplace warming the room. Securing the ties of her dressing gown, she spotted a long, expansive woolen cloak hanging on the door and wasted no time in wrapping herself in its puffy embrace. She could tell it swallowed her tiny frame, but she didn't mind a bit. It felt safe.

Maka stepped out of her room and right into the cozy hearth room at the center of the lodge. At this point she had to admit to herself that she didn't remember the inside of this place at all; she truly must have been unconscious when Soul had carried her in. To her right was a dusty bookcase, and out of habit she ran her hands along the row of spines until she came to a suitably interesting looking tome. She took a couple more out, for good measure, and set about her exploration.

There were two fireplaces, set across from each other, and a smattering of sofas and setées arranged haphazardly in the space between. Draped across one of the softest and droopiest looking sofas was Soul. She supposed they only had one spare room, and being ill, she had taken priority. It was enough to make her feel terribly guilty, but then she remembered the hellish chair in the guest room Soul had voluntarily camped out in, and she decided he was just a glutton for punishment.

He certainly looked comfortable enough now, lazily sprawled as he was. She resolved to tiptoe around the lodge and not disturb his precious rest. A dutch door led her to peek into the kitchen, where a harried looking cook was already hard at work, making the day's breakfast. The cook cackled at the sight of Maka's hopeful face and sent her away with a cup of tea and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, a cold cut of ham, and buttered toast. She worried that the sounds of her eating would disturb Soul's slumber, so she stole onto the porch.

The rain hadn't cleared up a bit since she had awoken, but it didn't fill her with a sense of dread– on the contrary, she felt merry as a grig. The cloak was toasty and large enough for her to draw her knees to her chest. Curled up on the porch _chaise longue_ , watching the rain come down, made her feel calm and resolved. Being awake before everyone else was her custom– even before she came to work at the Smiths', she had enjoyed early strolls to the neighborhood bakery with her mama, feeding the chickens and rabbits they had briefly kept, and tormenting her childhood friend, Blake, while the rest of London waited for the sun to rise.

There was something else– something so domestic and mundane about this scene, and the sense of familiarity made her heart glad. She'd often felt overwhelmed at the Crescent Moon, so far out of her depth she was constantly playing catch-up. Here, Maka was content. There was nothing to do until the rain let up, nowhere to go, no one to impress.

She set aside her tray of food and cracked open one of the books she had retrieved. The haul had been successful– whoever stocked the shelves had excellent taste, and she settled into _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ (an old favorite) with glee.

Dorothy and her team had just arrived at the Emerald City when a voice startled Maka out of her reading.

"Thinking of going for another swim?" It was Soul.

She whipped her head around so fast her neck twinged in pain. "I'm staying dry this time. Just watching, that's all."

He nodded and shuffled forward a few more feet. She glanced slyly over at him, noting that his posture was much more relaxed when it was just the two of them. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his overcoat and his hair was a mess. It looked like a rumpled bird's nest, with great chunks falling haphazardly over his face and eyes and sticking up rebelliously at the back. She quite liked it. It looked… soft, like fabric, or feathers.

"How are you feeling?" He did not look at her, and his voice was so faint she hardly caught the words over the sound of the falling rain.

"I'm fine now. Thanks. For–" She swallowed. _For what, exactly? For pulling her out of the water? For carrying her to the lodge? For letting her drip water all over his waistcoat? For watching over her as she battled a fever?_ There was too much to say, and so she said nothing.

The silence stretched palpably between them.

"Mmm." He hummed a sort of acknowledgement, but it could have been him clearing his throat. He was still staring out at the rain, just as she had been.

"You haven't shaved." She blurted it out, and then immediately blushed. She shouldn't have said that out loud. It just felt as though lately, whenever she was around Soul, her brain operated on a different level from her body. There was some disconnect, and half the time she felt as though she were watching someone else control her body, doing and thinking and saying things without regard to her better inclinations.

He hummed again and rubbed his jaw ruefully. It was scratchy with white stubble, stark against his tan skin.

"'S'that a problem?"

"I–no. Sorry." It _was_ a problem, actually, but not one she could ever tell him about. It was just so fantastically distracting, and she couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like under her fingers, beneath her lips, against her cheek– _oh God, she needed to stop_!

"You look a little flushed. Are you sure you aren't still feverish?"

She squeaked and ducked behind her book. "No! I'm fine!"

He stepped closer and she felt his cool, dry hand brushing her bangs away from her forehead. Without meaning to, she unconsciously leaned into his touch, letting the cool of his hand abate the pulsing heat of her brow. Maybe she _was_ still a little feverish, after all.

"You're burning up! Maka, you'd better get back to bed." His concern shook her from her musings.

"No, I'll just stay here a little longer. I'll just be reading in bed, anyway. No reason for me to move."

"But you'll catch cold–"

"This cloak is plenty warm."

He still looked doubtful. "If you so much as sneeze, I'm dragging you back inside where it's warm and having the housekeeper bring you a hot water bottle."

"I'm not that fragile." She laughed, but he looked at her very seriously.

"You scared me, Maka. You scared us all."

She suddenly felt very guilty indeed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't want anyone to ever have to worry about me."

He stared at her intently for a few more seconds. She was about to say something to break the awkward tension when he spoke again.

"No one shall worry for your safety again. I'll make sure of it. I won't let anything hurt you."

His expression was fierce, and she knew he meant it. A shiver stole through her in spite of her warm cloak.

They remained there for some time, he staring at the horizon and she feigning interest in _The Wizard of Oz_ , before he finally returned to the lodge in search of some food, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Somehow, she couldn't quite return to her book after their exchange. Her heart was beating too fast and the ghost of his touch upon her brow had her breathing a little harder than normal.

 _What's happening to me?_

The question came unbidden, and she wasn't sure she could handle the answer.

* * *

The rain continued through the morning and it was determined that they would not be able to leave for London until the roads had settled. The mud would make travel impossible, and they resigned themselves to staying a few more days.

The housekeepers kept bringing out tea and blankets and hot water bottles and scarves until Maka was obliged to come into the lodge to spare them from their errands, which she suspected had been set by a rather overanxious young Eaton brother. Said brother was restlessly pacing around the hearth room like a caged tiger, scowling and driving everyone to distraction. Joe Buttataki invented a litany of tasks to busy himself with off-premises, and, now freed from the necessity of bringing warming implements out to the porch, the cook and housekeepers steered clear of the hearth room at all costs.

Maka could not bring herself to be shut back into the bedroom, so she resolved to tolerate his pacing and threw herself into _The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz_ with forced vigour. However, she just couldn't concentrate on what the Cowardly Lion was saying… A certain brooding presence in the hearth room prevented it. "Oh, bother!" she cried, throwing her book to the side of the sofa in irritation. "I just can't read this anymore!"

Her outburst left Maka and Soul to look at each other tersely for a minute, realizing they were alone together in the hearth room.

"Won't you stop that dreadful pacing," Maka begged. "I can't concentrate on my book with you walking around like that."

"You'll grow mushrooms on your head if you read so much," was his answer, but he stopped pacing.

"You've said that before, and I won't dignify it with a response," she said from behind her book, which she had stealthily retrieved.

"I believe you just did, Miss Albarn," he told her. There was a challenge in his tone and mischief in his eyes, and she was momentarily thrown off.

"Standing there and scowling at me isn't much better than pacing," she replied, scowling to cover the fact that her heart was pounding a little faster than normal. He slouched rebelliously and gave her a slow smirk as he rounded the couch to stand before her.

"What would you have me do, then?"

"Err, well, you could– Uh–" he was standing there, a mere foot away from where she sat, and she was forced to squint up at him as he loomed over her. His stance was casual on the surface, hands thrust into his pockets and a placid expression on his face, but she knew that she was not the only one who felt the acute tension between them. She ducked behind her book again, using it as a shield.

Maka hadn't felt this disconcerted since he had given her the dancing lesson in the piano room… Her eyes cast about helplessly around the corners of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ , settling anywhere but on the man before her. What had she done, back in the piano room, to break the tension? They had played the gramophone–

"Whaaaat?" he drawled, and he tugged playfully at her book. Oh, he was _cruel_ and she was as red as a tomato. _Why was he so damn close!_ "Quit hiding behind your book and talk to me."

"Uh-Soul–" she began.

"Mmm?" He tugged the book away and tossed it aside carelessly, which would have absolutely scandalized her under any other circumstances.

"W-will-you-play-the-piano-for-me?!" It was a desperate utterance, and once it had been said she wished she could take it back. It was just that Soul made her so _stupid_ , sometimes! _He was just so close, and shouldn't she know by now that her thoughts grew more erratic with his proximity?_

But even so, she should have known better than to ask him to play the piano. He hated performing!

He stiffened in shock as he processed her request.

"I'm sorry," she tripped over her words, trying to fix the damage that she had wrought. "I didn't mean to– you don't have to–"

"No," he said, and cleared his throat.

Her heart sank as he stepped back and began to walk away. Had she ruined everything? Why was he walking to her room? Surely he wasn't going to slam her own door and shut himself in there?

He paused at the doorway and turned around. "It's alright... I don't mind playing... for you."

"Oh…" she said faintly.

He waited for a moment, and she could not begin to interpret his expression as he stared at her. Finally, his hand came up to rub the back of his neck and he cleared his throat. "Well, are you coming, or what?"

"Oh! … Yes!" She sprang up from the couch and nearly tripped in her eagerness to get to her room.

When she got there, she hesitated, conflicted as to whether she ought to keep the door open or not. She had recovered from her illness enough that it wasn't really proper to have a gentleman calling on her in her room, but Soul hated to have other people hear him perform.

Soul was waiting patiently at the piano in the corner, and something stirred in the depths of her memory.

"Soul," she began, slowly. "I have a question."

He looked guarded. "What."

"Did you… play for me, while I had the fever?"

He nodded.

She was touched. His music had helped draw her out of her fever, she was certain of it.

"Thank you," she told him softly.

He tugged at his collar, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "If you're finished, the performance is about to begin," he joked rather lamely.

"I'm done." She shut the door and hoped the servants wouldn't gossip too terribly.

He ducked his head and turned toward the piano. Unlike the glistening new grand piano at the Crescent Moon, this piano was old and more full of character, probably an antique. Soul fumbled around for a bit with it, tuning it and testing the keys. Maka hummed with happy anticipation and sat down on her bed, deriving as much enjoyment from watching Soul prepare as from hearing him play.

Once he was satisfied with the sounds it was producing, he flexed his hands and bent over the keys. The piano, which had seemed so dusty and outdated, responded eagerly to his fingertips, and Maka leaned forward, intent on observing the speed and deftness with which he played.

The last time she had heard him playing, it had been clear that he was upset, the anger, loneliness, and helplessness bleeding through and lacing his song with sadness. This song was lighter and sweeter, but it still had a tinge of melancholy, she thought. At least, that was what she thought she saw in him as he played. She felt that perhaps this was how Soul expressed his emotions, and that music notes could convey, for him, what words could never do.

Then she flushed and told herself to stop being so silly. It was only a song, after all, and music was just a collection of sounds! It wasn't like her poetry, or–

But there was, perhaps, a bit of a poem in the way his mouth twisted with satisfaction as his notes soared. A bit of prose in his brows, which knit together as he focused upon the keys. A kind of rhyme to the way she wished, foolishly, to be the one he looked at so intently.

* * *

AN: Eee, these latest chapters have been a lot of fun to write. And one of my absolute favorites is coming up next! :) Please leave me a review if you liked it!


	13. Chapter 13

Warnings: consumption of alcohol, extensive drunk flirtation, brief brothel and opium den mentions

* * *

A few days later, when the roads cleared up, they bid adieu to Joe Butattaki and the staff at the lodge, and settled themselves into the cab which would take them back to London. Maka was quite glad for them to be on their way, for she had no other clothes to wear than the garden party dress, which was now a great deal less glamourous than it had been when they left London– struggling through bush and bramble and leaving it in a crumpled heap along the riverbank during Rachel's rescue had left it filthy and torn. After her dip in the river and subsequent fever, she was certain she was in need of as much washing as the dress. How nice it would be to return to her room at the Crescent Moon and settle in for a hot bath!

Lost in a dream of steam and fluffy towels, she didn't notice Soul falling asleep across from her until she heard his faint snores. A little drool escaped as well and she smiled, overcome by a wave of affection. _Silly boy_. As the carriage whisked them through small towns and empty fields, she thought about the ways her life had changed since meeting him, since she had boarded that fateful train to London, all those weeks ago.

She still hadn't properly thanked Soul, not just for taking care of her during her illness, but also for trusting her when she went plunging into the water. For working with her to save Rachel. It meant more to her than she could say.

And playing the piano for her… That had been a gift. He had trusted her with a part of himself, a part he rarely let anyone else see.

If only there was something she could do, something she could show him about herself that would hold even a fraction of the sentiment she felt…

An idea began to take root in her mind, and by the time they were halfway to London, she had her mind made up. It was only a matter of convincing the cab driver to take them a bit out of their way…

* * *

"Maka, what are you up to? Where are you taking me?" Soul asked her.

Maka smiled. "It's a surprise."

"You know, if you plan to hold me for ransom, you'll be waiting forever. Wes hasn't got an ounce of fraternal love in him."

"Oh, I think I know better than to kidnap you. Far better to snatch his violin…" She quipped, but Soul choked a little at the suggestion.

"Relax."

He grumbled, but she could tell that there was anticipation beneath the grouchy facade.

She was growing giddy as well, already savoring the smell of steak and kidney pies, the raucous shouts and laughter of the taverns and the cries of newspaper salesmen and shoe shiners and fishmongers. She missed _home_. Weeks ago, she would have never imagined that to be possible, but here she was.

When the driver stopped to let them know that they had arrived, she let Soul pay him and then told him they would find their own way back. Perhaps they would even run into her childhood friend, Blake, who had worked as a cab driver for as long as she'd been working with the Smiths.

"Maka, where are we?" Soul asked breathlessly, eyebrows disappearing into snowy white hair as he took in their destination.

"We're in the East End… Where I grew up."

* * *

They strolled upon poorly paved streets, through cramped alleyways, and under swaying laundry lines until they came to a busy thoroughfare, filled with the shouts of a market. Maka convinced Soul to share an order of fish and chips with her and they bought several piping hot meat pies from a rather weary looking street vendor before heading to the docks. Even though the air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and the bricks of the buildings were stained black from charcoal and soot, Maka excitedly began chattering to him about all the things she had missed about this corner of the world. Along the way, she showed him where children left milk to lure out and tame alley cats, where young men and women left notes for hopeful lovers, where the faded remnants of chalk marked a serious hopscotch rivalry between opposing urchin gangs.

And she told him, too, because it was just as much a part of life in the East End as anything else, and because it was plain to see, about the children in rags who sprawled on the street with nowhere to call home, the beggars hobbling around on crutches and asking if they could spare a shilling, the tired chimney-sweeps and laundry women and factory workers returning to their homes for a meagre dinner. His eyes roved over a shop where a number of sailors, merchants, and even wealthy men sought refuge in that mysterious substance called opium. Maka was busy checking their pockets in case one of the children or beggars had actually made away with more than the shillings Soul gave them.

The wharf was noisy and hectic, and Soul must have let his face show his distress, because Maka wove her fingers into his and helped pull him along through the crowds of working women, grimy sailors, and flower sellers. When they finally reached the edge of the pier, he sagged against the railing in relief. They fed the seagulls with leftover chips and Maka was delighted as one of the seagulls hopped onto the railing and tried to snatch one out of Soul's hand. He jumped back in alarm and squawked as loudly as the bird while she laughed.

"So, this is where you grew up, huh," he said finally.

"Yes," she replied, watching a seagull skate across the insistent waves lapping against the pier. "This is… how the rest of us live, I suppose." There was no blame or bitterness in her tone, just simple fact.

They stood in silence for a while, until Maka licked the last of the salt from her fingers and pushed off the railing, with a quiet, "Let's go."

* * *

They walked around for another hour, but when the sun began to set, Maka dragged Soul over to the doorway of an Irish pub.

"This is what I'm most excited about showing you," she told him. "This place is a pub, but it's kind of a music hall, too."

They pushed their way inside, which was no easy feat as the place was packed. Getting to the bar required extraordinary footwork and sharp elbows, but finally Maka fought through the crowd to the front of the bar and flagged down a barmaid.

She was tempted to ask for tea, as she usually did on the rare occasions she had reason to come to a tavern like this. But Soul's eyes were bright even in the smoky dimness of the pub, and there was a band gearing up to play. She saw that the occupants of the inn were clearing the floor for _dancing_. So she boldly ordered them both whiskey and ginger ale.

"Maka– what are you–" Soul asked loudly, trying to be heard over the din, but she just grinned.

"Never had it?"

He muttered something that sounded like "Of course I have," but she couldn't be sure. They toasted when their drinks arrived and then the music began. The violin was untuned and she could almost feel Soul flinch, but the band was only warming up. Still, she saw him quaff a large gulp of his drink out of the corner of her eye.

He started coughing and she had to laugh and thump him on the back until tears came to his eyes.

He glared at her, then glanced to her glass.

She accepted the challenge and downed half of it without blinking. She was secretly impressed with herself, as it tasted mostly awful and she had never really liked whiskey or ginger beer much, but the look on Soul's face was priceless.

"I don't believe it," he grumbled. "Are you just good at everything?"

Now she was really laughing. "If I had suspected this was all it would take to impress you, I would have shown you how I handled all the water Wes made me carry around on my head a long time ago."

"He _what_?!"

"Err, it's nothing." She suddenly remembered Soul's vow to protect her from harm, the one he had made that rainy day on the lodge porch: _I won't let anything hurt you._

She had never seen him look so fierce, so utterly certain of his conviction. Perhaps it should have frightened her, but instead it aroused something more dangerous within her, a warm kind of fluttering feeling that made her think and act in ways that were silly and unbecoming of a girl who had never even let a grown man kiss her.

"Nothing," she repeated hastily. She didn't know how Soul would react if he learned of Wes's little boiling water experiment, and she thought it best for everyone if he never found out.

She covered the awkward moment by downing the rest of her glass. She caught him staring a little dreamily at her throat, and tore her eyes away before he could catch her staring back. She caught the gaze of the barmaid instead, who raised an eyebrow expectantly. "Er, yes, I suppose I'll– have another," she said hesitantly. She didn't really want to drink that much, but it would give her something to do besides stutter and stare at Soul out of the corner of her eye.

The barmaid slapped her drink down in front of her and turned around to take care of a new customer, but it was a little out of her reach. Maka leaned forward and extended her hand at the same time that Soul reached for the drink and their hands brushed briefly. Maka froze, and then laughed a little nervously. Soul withdrew his hand hastily and she tugged the glass into drinking distance.

Luckily, the band began to play in earnest at that moment, and she was saved from any awkwardness by turning to face the music. She had brought him here because this place had musical acts that sometimes featured fast-paced, frenetic and unpredictable elements such as she thought his music had.

Maka wasn't sure if it was the music or the whiskey, but Soul seemed to be relaxing as he had in the lodge, and as he never seemed to be able to do in London. He had that serene expression he only wore when they were alone. Her heart swelled with something like pride, and she felt compelled to speak.

"I– the music– it's not as good as yours or anything, but– I thought you might like to come here." She hoped he understood. She was thanking him, for sharing his music with her, for sharing _himself_ with her.

He gave her a crooked little grin and reached out to pull one of her curls softly. "You don't know a thing about music, Maka. But I guess that means that you somehow like to listen to my music, too. So, thanks."

She was ready to begin a bitter defense of her (admittedly nonexistent) musical prowess, but instead she was struck by a very, very intriguing idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the whiskey, and the warm fuzziness taking over the place in her brain that usually sent her messages of caution, but right now she couldn't be bothered to worry about that, because the music was humming through her and she very, very much wanted to dance.

"Souuuuulllll…."

"What?"

" _Souuuullll._ Will you dance with me?"

"What?! No! Not here!" He looked around them frantically as if even the mention of him dancing was enough to cause panic.

"Come onnnnnn…." she chuckled a bit. He was so _stubborn_! "I'll let you lead! ...And I won't step on your toes–"

"Forget it. I'm not dancing in front of all these people." He crossed his arms like a child and frowned.

"But they're _strangers_ –"

"Nope."

"Hmmph!" she pouted a little at his unwillingness to cooperate. She had thought that since there was no risk of being seen by anyone they knew, he might be willing, but…

A small man with a strange outfit tapped her on the shoulder. His mouth, which was sharply turned down at the corners, opened to ask if she would do him the honor of joining him on the dance floor. At least, that seemed to be what he was saying, as it was rather hard to hear over the din of the pub.

She glanced at Soul, who had done nothing to hide his mocking grin, and frowned. Why was he being so pig-headed? And was it so hard to believe that a man _might_ like to dance with her, where others could see?

She accepted the weird man's hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor. _So Soul thought it was funny, did he, that some silly man was asking her to dance?_ _Did he enjoy seeing her get flustered as the man repeatedly stomped on her toes?!_ She began to regret her decision to dance with him almost immediately, but it was too late, and her subtle attempts to extricate herself were met with resistance from the small, annoying man.

In any case, Soul did absolutely nothing to rescue her, and she sent him withering looks over her partner's shoulder at every turn.

The man in question, who introduced himself as Goseph (or at least, that was what it sounded like) was more enthusiastic than skilled. In the cramped space of the dancefloor, Maka was uncomfortably thrown against him and spent most of her time dodging his heels. The music was very different from what she had practiced with in her lessons, and so they muddled through with a fumbling rhythm.

When the song ended, Maka tried again to extricate herself, but even as she drifted away from him, Goseph followed, grasping at her elbow and looking annoyed at her attempts to escape. She carefully wove around a tableau forming on the dance floor between a prostitute and two eager gentlemen. As the woman lifted her skirts and swung a leg around one gleeful patron, Maka dodged Goseph's imploring fingers and slid right into a tall, handsome man with spectacles and jet black hair.

"Excuse me," he said, blinking down at her in bemusement.

"Sorry," she said loudly. "I'm–"

"Looking for someone to dance with?" he asked kindly, and took up her fingers in his, as he placed his other hand respectfully at her shoulder.

Maka could see Goseph nearly howling with fury over the shoulder of her new dance partner, and she eagerly accepted the opportunity.

The music sped up and the new man tugged her close. She supposed the waltzes she had practiced with Wes and Kid were a little different than this. After her partner had begun to spin her around, she hazarded a glance over at Soul, and noted that, suddenly, he didn't look _quite_ so amused.

Maka smirked. She let the man pull her deeper into the crowd of dancers, and soon they were being bumped and jostled from all sides by eager pubgoers.

And then she was being dipped and swung around, and the whiskey was making her head spin a little, and she was laughing because this sort of dance would have given the people at the Crescent Moon a most unpleasant turn– she could only imagine the gossip if she and Soul had danced this way at dinner!

But as soon as she thought of Soul, she sensed a presence at her elbow, and she tore herself away from her partner to land, breathless, in front of no other than Soul himself, who seemed to have elbowed his way onto the dance floor to cut in. The man with the spectacles waved graciously from across the floor and she waved back, glancing at Soul just in time to see his scowl deepen. He stepped a little closer and she braced her arms on his shoulders, trying to catch her breath between giggles.

"Soul?" she asked, when she could breathe properly again.

He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her to him.

"Wha–"

"Okay, Maka, you win... Let's … _dance_ or whatever," he said, as though dancing were a particularly distasteful word.

But his movements were firm and confident, and she couldn't truly believe he hated dancing as much as he let on. Still, she was not about to give in without a fight. He had let her be led, like a lamb to the slaughter, to dance with that horrible Goseph, and then had the audacity to laugh at her!

"I don't know, are you sure you're up for it, Souuuul? This isn't quite the same as the dancing we've done at the Crescent Moon, you know. A rich boy like you might have trouble keeping up," she yelled into his ear. There was no time to censor her words, things just kept tumbling out of her mouth outside her control. _Whoops._

"So what," he shot back, loudly. "Same principles. And I _know_ what I'm doing." _He was pouting magnificently_ , she thought with some satisfaction.

They had to stand scandalously close to keep abreast of the moving throng of people and to hear one another over the music– so close that her chest bumped against his lower ribcage and she was struck again by the full head of height he had over her. Soul, who was usually so reserved and cautious, now seemed to have fully embraced his pigheadedness and was using the height difference to his full advantage to loom over her in magnificent irritation.

She met his expression with a defiant look of her own, and they stood there with eyes blazing, faces only inches away from touching. Privately she was overwhelmed with the reality of him, there, all at once, over and around her. Now instead of merely brushing, their bodies were pressed quite snugly against each other. But she did not step away. Something in her was bold and broken, and she suspected that she wouldn't be able to deny him anything he asked, not while he looked so carefree and deliberate all at once.

"It's a tango," Soul said slowly, once the next song began. "You know? All the rage in Paris right now."

"What–?"

"Or didn't you think that a ' _rich boy like me_ ' might know what this was? Did you not consider I might have been dragged to stupid lessons by my brother for months in order to learn about this newest craze?" There was a hint of a smile stretching across his face, and she gulped.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I most certainly _can_ keep up." His grin was downright smarmy now, and she fought the urge to hit him over the head. No one had a right to look _that_ smug.

Maka was honestly shocked to think that Soul, of all people, who seemed allergic to intimacy and terrified of the scrutiny of others, had learned and practiced the moves that were being employed by the dancers around them. Her jaw dropped at some of the scenes displayed before her– that man by the bar was literally _kissing_ up the stomach and chest of his dance partner! The thought of Soul doing– _that_ – to some faceless dance partner filled her with a possessiveness and envy she didn't have the presence of mind to explore.

"Show me," she demanded. "Show me what you know." She was crossing her arms and looked for all the world as if she were inviting him to a fight. And perhaps she was.

"It's similar to what we practiced with the waltz," he said, gesturing to the couples around them. Maka snuck a glance at the kissing couple, who were now engaging in behavior that had veered from the realm of dancing into downright _love-making_. She looked back to see he had been following her line of sight and raised her eyebrows.

Soul coughed uncomfortably, his face turning red. "Well, anyway," he tried again, "It's a _bit_ the same…" the violin player let loose a flurry of notes and then stopped abruptly, and she watched the couples on the dance floor follow in their passionate explorations and then swing away from one another when the music paused.

"But it's faster," he finished. "And more staccato."

"Alright, show me," she said, though she rather doubted she would be able to learn the moves, much less _perform_ in the way the other dancers seemed to be doing.

"You can start from any position, but the way I learned it, the man stands here," he slid behind her and she squeaked in suprise. "I'm still here," he reminded her, and she fought a shiver as she felt his breath at her ear. "Now you extend one arm–"

The back of her shoulders bumped slightly against his chest and she felt heat racing up her spine. Her ears were probably radish red. The tavern was warm with the heat of feverish bodies, but she could feel heat radiating between her body and Soul's, separately from the rest of the crowd.

She raised her arm hesitantly, feeling foolish, and then he slowly glided his hand along the length of her arm, from shoulder to wrist, showing her exactly the angle and the tension needed, before closing his fingers around hers. "And your other hand here." His hand enclosed hers and he transferred it– she couldn't help sucking in a breath of surprise when his hand _stayed_ , resting firmly upon hers at the swell of her hip.

She licked her lips and whispered, "Now what."

"Now," he bent his head, so that his mouth rested nearly over her neck, and she was glad he was holding her because her knees were feeling surprisingly weak. How easy it would be, she thought, for him to move that extra inch, for his tongue–

"We move," he finished, his voice perhaps more gravelly than usual.

They stepped to the side, and Maka nearly broke the embrace because she stepped too quickly. He pulled her gently back to their starting position. "Try again, but this time, when you step, don't bring your other leg over so soon– you'll slide it, with me, slowly."

Maka gulped. Inside, she was a mess. Outside, she snapped, " _I knew that_!"

"Don't be a brat," he drawled. "You _asked_ me to show you how to do it."

"Hmmph!" Their banter was the only thing that could save her– if she resorted to halfhearted indignation, perhaps she could avoid thinking about the trails of goosebumps Soul left along her body wherever he touched.

Once they mastered the slide, they began a series of steps that should have been quite simple for anyone with half a brain– but Maka was certain that she had been missing a crucial part for some time now, because around Soul she always seemed to be a little less composed.

"Maka," he murmured from behind her, lacing his fingers through hers. She waited eagerly, wondering what he had in store.

Watching carefully for any sign of hesitation or resistance in her, and finding none, he moved her right hand up behind her head, to grasp at his neck, and her left hand behind her back, splayed against his side.

"Now we step back and forth," he said a little breathlessly, and she felt him behind her, nudging her forward. When they had finished their forward steps, he pulled her back, gently, by her waist, and she was lost in the sensation of them swaying together, back and forth.

It was in _no way_ similar to a waltz.

It wasn't careful. It wasn't chaste. It wasn't proper.

 _It was the most fun she'd ever had_.

The forbidden taste of whiskey lingered heavily on her tongue, but her head felt deliciously light and floaty, and her feet moved too fast for her to keep up with them. After a while she resigned herself to simply holding on for dear life, even if it left her clinging a little too close to Soul to be entirely proper. His hand was warm on her waist and the small of her back, and she lost herself in the feeling of their bodies working in harmony.

The music ended with her suspended in a low dip, and when Soul slowly brought her up, he did not remove his arms. She was utterly enfolded in his embrace, and strangely, she didn't want him to let go.

"Finally, something you aren't the best at," he whispered, meanly, still clutching her to him.

"Ah– h-how ungallant of you!" she began to sputter, stepping back on her heel. "First you said I didn't know anything about music, and now you complain about my dancing technique?"

"Hmmm… That's another thing I'm better at. Why did I say you were good at everything? I can't remember now..."

"I'm just doing it to make you feel better about choking on your drink" she cried wildly. "Don't be fooled by my humble skills at music and dance. It's all been a– massively orchestrated ploy to spare your dignity!"

"Oh?"

"Yes."

He tugged her closer. "Tell me more," he whispered.

"I –am a woman of many talents, you know" she continued, aware that she was beginning to babble a bit. It was just that he was so _close,_ and his arms were wrapped around her, and suddenly she couldn't banish the thought of that couple from earlier, kissing one another in the most sinful of ways...

"I don't doubt it," he said seriously, rousing her from her harried, shameful fantasies. "And many mysteries."

"Mysteries? Like what?" Without her realizing it, they had moved so that her back was pressing against the edge of the bar.

"I've always wondered…" one of his hands left her waist, only to stroke some stray hair out of her eyes. She could feel her blush creeping up from her collar to her hairline, and the question in his heated gaze promised that her flush would not be abating any time soon.

She scarcely knew what she was doing. She was lost in a feeling, cast headlong out on a powerful tide of emotion that threatened to shake her very roots. His eyes were mesmerizing and her face was almost touching his collarbone. They were so close now…

"Yes? What is it you have wondered?"

"I want to know if your lips are as soft as they look."

His eyes were burning into hers, and oh, she was entranced.

She tilted her chin up, bringing her lips perilously close to his.

"Come and find out, then?"

* * *

 **AN:** suave Soul? i blame the alcohol. If you can guess who spectacle guy was I'll give you a sticker.

Also to everyone reading, thanks again for your patience with this story. I've been taking time off work and writing during my waking hours to get this thing done, and I REALLY appreciate everyone who has been reading, as well as those who have given feedback and encouragement. It's my first resbang and I definitely bit off more than I could chew.

BUT I really want to make this good for you all so I'm gonna try to get this done as fast as possible without sacrificing quality if I can!


	14. Chapter 14

Warning for: part 2 of the pub scene, brothel mentions, mild references to serial murder

* * *

Maka didn't know quite what had possessed her to say that. It was the sort of thing she had never expected to hear herself saying– such invitations were more in the realm of confident, alluring temptresses like Blair or even Liz, and hardly suited to her level of experience, which amounted to one rather traumatizing kiss on a childhood dare with her friend Blake.

She was so surprised at her daring that she jumped a little in anticipation, and consequently received a rather sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, bestowed directly on the tip of her nose.

"Oh!" her hands flew up to cover her mouth, and Soul stepped back hurriedly. "That was– not what I was expecting–" he stammered.

"That wasn't my lips, you idiot!"

"...Oh." He looked embarrassed. They looked at each other guardedly for a moment.

"I think I'm actually a little drunk," he finally admitted.

"Okay," she said.

"...Perhaps we should return to the hotel before it gets much later."

He looked reluctant, in spite of his words, but she knew he was right. The things that were happening, the things she wanted, the things she thought he might also want, were not things which led anywhere good. They couldn't…

They shouldn't.

She bit her lip.

"Soul, I–"

She didn't get to finish because an intoxicated pubgoer crashed heavily into her shoulder, then. His ale slopped all over her front and soaked part of her hair.

"Oh!"

There was no point confronting the man, who seemed to have gone to sleep right where he had fallen on the floor. Occasionally he mumbled something, so they knew he wasn't dead.

Soul left to fetch a cloth to help her clean up the mess.

A familiar woman thrust a handkerchief into her hands, and she looked up.

"This sort has no consideration, love. Don't mind the mess. You still look lovely!"

"Wait! Blair?"

The purple haired madame gave her a vague smile that held no recognition. "I'm sorry love, do I know you?"

"Blair, don't you recognize me?"

"Pardon me, Miss–?"

"Blair, don't be ridiculous, it's me, it's Maka!"

"Maka?!..." Blair's golden eyes widened. "Ohmigod, Maka! Look at you!" Blair purred in delight, stepping back to admire Maka's clothing (stained and torn as it was from her exertions at the garden party, it was still much finer than any of the vestments being sported by the other pubgoers).

"I've been so worried about you! Ever since your father– well, you know. I wondered what happened, and I never heard anything from you. We were all worried, Kitten."

Maka felt ashamed. She hadn't even thought to contact Blair, who must have been quite troubled with the arrest of her live-in security detail, and was apparently concerned for her welfare as well.

"I'm so sorry, Blair. I should have come to you, let you know what was going on. Let me buy you a drink, at least. I want to hear about everything that's happened."

Blair accepted her offer of a drink and they took seats at the bar.

"Yes, after you left, the police came and dragged 'im out. They made a huge mess of things, too. Tossing furniture all over, scaring the girls and customers half to death! And they broke the door down," she finished, absently stirring her drink with a clawlike fingernail. "Of course, then we didn't hear anything from you and I could only guess what might've happened…"

Her warm golden eyes roved over Maka, taking in her improved appearance. "Certainly done alright for yourself, though, from the looks of it! I needn't 'ave worried!"

"Yes, the Eaton brothers have been kind to me." Mostly… She mentally corrected herself.

Blair cackled happily. "That's my girl! I never would have expected it from you, to be honest, but then you've got enough spirit to keep two men busy enough."

"Well, there's also Kid, too. He's quite strict, but I know he means well. Even if his demands tire me out."

Blair's eyebrows raised a little.

"Oh, my. You mean to tell me the Eaton brothers aren't the only ones?"

"Well, that's how it started anyway, with the three of us, at least, and Kid makes four. Now the number keeps growing. They pass me off to whoever can help them in some way… It's their way of settling debts, I suppose."

"Maka, be honest with me... How many men are you mistress to?"

Maka's jaw dropped.

"What? I– no! I'm not–! Nothing like that!" She waved her hands in front of herself as if to ward off demons.

"You mean to tell me you and that man are not involved in any way? I was watching you two."

Maka sighed. "No. Er... It's hard to explain, but– he's meant for another... An heiress."

Blair looked at her sympathetically before patting her hand gently. "Nothing that says a discreet gentleman can't have a little love on the side, though, you know."

She knew Blair only meant to comfort her, but it had exactly the opposite effect. She rather felt as though she were diving into that freezing river again. Something clenched in her heart, something cold and hard, and suddenly she was very much sober again.

"I'm afraid I know that better than most, Blair."

She hadn't meant to accuse the woman, only to remind her that she wasn't a naive child. But Blair flinched as if she'd been struck.

Maka didn't blame Blair or any of the other girls for her father's infidelity or her mother's absence, far from it. That blame rested solely with her Papa.

She turned to say as much to Blair, but they were interrupted with the arrival of Soul.

"They had some napkins, and I'm sure if you give this to one of the attendants at the hotel quickly enough, the stain won't set–" His eyes widened as he saw Blair sitting next to her.

"Oh! I should introduce you. Soul, this is my dear friend, Blair–"

She had hoped that calling Blair her friend would clear up any worries on Blair's part regarding her relationship with Spirit, but Blair didn't seem to be paying attention to anything Maka said anymore. She was staring at Soul intently, her head cocked to the side as if trying to remember something.

The bearded drunk who had crashed into Maka roused from his slumber beneath them and decided that now was a good time to claw his way back to a standing position by hauling himself up on Maka's skirt.

The entire band stopped playing to better observe the spectacle.

She was caught up in disengaging her drunken assailant, so that she could not press Soul for details as to why he was suddenly looking so anxious.

However, she did not have to wait long to find the answer, as Blair's voice trilled out over the new silence. "Oh, hello, Kitten! Haven't we met before?"

"Whaa-? N-n-n–" Soul was backing away and shaking his head furiously.

"Ah, yes! Now I remember! You came to see me with your brother, didn't you?"

He looked as though he were about to faint.

"I never forget a customer! Especially not one who leaves such a big tip!" She wagged a finger at him and winked.

Maka had finally torn away from the hapless drunk and she could feel her mess of confused emotions beginning to boil over.

"...Soul?" she asked slowly.

His guilty, pleading expression only confirmed her fears.

Her hands balled into fists at her side and her eyes narrowed into slits as Soul raised his arms in a placating gesture. "Maka, Maka, it's not–"

"You ass!" she yelled. Then she was getting to her feet, stalking to the exit, determined not to look at his pathetic, pleading face another second.

To think, she had been so close to opening up, to trusting a man.

She couldn't help the tears leaking out of the corner of her eyes, but they weren't tears of sadness. She was angry, more than anything, and her ire wasn't even directed at Soul. She felt betrayed– by her own conscience. It was so stupid of her, to believe that he might be different.

She'd felt it first when Blair had reminded her that men like Soul could have a mistress on the side. A terrible, terrible suspicion overcame her… Was she being primed to be some sort of courtesan, some sort of secret dalliance? Would Soul try to woo her even as he began a married life with Anya? It was so terribly unjust, that a man could love one, and marry another, and then keep a few spares for comfort, as he pleased, while a woman with no prospects must sell herself or resign herself to becoming a gentleman's plaything– and be hated by society no matter which.

Blair would tell her being mistress to a wealthy man wasn't a bad life, all things considered. Even Liz had told her that her original aim had been to meet a wealthy married man who would provide for her. It had been sheer dumb luck that the man she'd found had been more interested in the company of other men than Liz herself.

But Maka couldn't do it. Watching her mother cry over her father's infidelity had taught her that she would never be able to share the affections of a man.

And here she wondered at her prospects– what would become of her, truly, after she helped Soul marry his heiress? It was the question everyone had been skirting around for a long time now, and she, she who had been so foolish, so sentimental, had happily ignored the brevity of these new circumstances, had even, on occasion, allowed herself to fantasize about what life might be like with – no. She took a deep breath and bit her lip to stop its trembling. She could not indulge those thoughts. She was a poor girl from the streets of London's East End– and the way life was, it wasn't fair, but it was the truth, and she had to face it. Denial and folly would only make the blow land harder when her time with the Eatons came to an end.

She had to end this– whatever it was– between her and Soul, right now. There would be no continuing their friendship after his marriage to Anya. She would… She would leave London if she had to, to ensure that she could get by. If her Mama could do it, so could she.

It wasn't running away. She definitely was not running away. This was the way to salvage her dignity and live her life. In another country, perhaps, she wouldn't need to avoid reading the society column in newspapers, where surely news about Soul and his new wife would be splashed across headlines whenever their relationship reached a new milestone–

"Come inside, it's getting cold," said a deep voice from behind her.

"It doesn't bother me," she told Soul without turning around.

"Fine, be stubborn then. But listen, there's something I need to tell you."

"Me first." If she let him speak, she might lose her nerve, and so she needed to get this out as quickly as possible.

He gestured for her to proceed, and she squared her shoulders and tried not to look the way she felt. The secret to a good poker face is pretending not to care… Wasn't that what he'd told her, on the train, all that time ago?

"My priority is to help you woo Miss Hepburn. By necessity, it will appear to those in your extended social circle that we are more intimately involved, but make no mistake– our relationship is to remain strictly professional. We are, I hope, united in our mutual goal of helping you procure an advantageous marriage. As such, I must ask you to forget what has happened tonight and redouble your efforts to charm Miss Hepburn."

"I see," he said slowly.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Nevermind. It doesn't matter."

"Alright. Let us call a cab, then."

"Okay, Maka. But… just so you know… I won't forget tonight, no matter what you say."

If his words affected her, she did not let it show, and they rode the rest of the way to the Crescent Moon in silence.

* * *

"They're keeping something from me," Wes told his lover, once they were alone in Kid's townhouse study.

"Why do you think that?" Kid looked up from his desk, where he had been siphoning most of his focus into perusing a rather lengthy article about crime in the central west end. Since Spirit Albarn's arrest, there had been no publicized murders by Sonson Jay. On the surface, this might be taken as troubling evidence of Albarn's guilt, but Kid had probed deeper, calling in favors at Scotland Yard and gaining access to records not released to the public. What he found was promising: there had been some recent suspicious deaths of wealthy widows that were not linked to Sonson Jay… But if the manner of their deaths matched the serial killer's modus operandi (and Kid suspected they did) then they might be able to supply sufficient evidence that Spirit Albarn was innocent.

Because he was so excited about this possibility, he missed a good part of what Wes was saying, only cluing in just in time to answer a question which was seemingly directed at him:

"Don't you agree, dearest Kid?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," he said absently. "And what else, Wes?"

"Oh, I've never seen Soul so animated. You know, before this whole thing began, he was so sullen all the time. I swear I've seen him smile more in the past few months than his whole life!"

"Perhaps this business with Miss Hepburn has been as beneficial as you'd hoped," Kid said vaguely, still puzzling over the pattern of deaths.

"I am certain that is it," Wes said happily. "Have you looked into the matter with Miss Albarn's father at all?"

Kid gestured to the spread of papers across his desk. "What do you think I've been working on so late at night? If my hunch is correct, I believe it should be relatively simple to prove that the murders have continued even after Spirit Albarn's arrest."

"Well, then, why haven't you wrapped this all up and freed him yet?"

Kid frowned. "Someone is suppressing the evidence of these disappearances. Which means the murderer is either very powerful, very well-connected, or actually belongs to the police or the press."

"I love it when you draw conclusions… It drives me mad." Wes gave him a positively sinful grin, and Kid cleared his throat.

"Well, erm, yes. That is to say, I believe, err…"

"Yes?"

"Someone… has… err… Oh, now I'm distracted!" Kid said huffily. "You oughtn't do that to me, Wes, that was cruel."

"I was merely speaking truth. I am sorry if I made you forget what you were saying…" Wes said in a tone that made it clear he was not sorry at all. "I believe you were going to tell me the motivation behind the murders?"

"Ah, yes. Well, all the victims have been rich widows with large estates and no apparent heirs."

"Is someone profiting off their deaths? Can you track them down?"

"Yes, as soon as my contact at Scotland Yard gets back to me, I believe we shall have this in the bag."

* * *

Wes and Kid returned to the Crescent Moon that evening for dinner with Lady Tsubaki, and while they awaited the return of Soul and Maka, they found they were privy to some news of their own.

An envelope had been delivered to the Eatons' suite, and Lady Tsubaki appeared for dinner bearing an identical envelope, addressed to Lady Albarn.

The sender was listed as Miss Anastasia Hepburn.


	15. Chapter 15

Warnings for mild cursing, brief references to alcohol, women being compared to inanimate objects, mild violence

* * *

Soul and Maka returned to the Crescent Moon around midnight, many hours later than they had been set to arrive. Now that the effects of the whiskey and dancing were wearing off, they were sober in both thought and action. In fact, Maka felt that things might have been rather tense between them, if they were both not so utterly exhausted. The emotional toll of their visit to the East End had them both craving sleep, so they planned to sneak quietly to their rooms and have as little fuss made of their reappearance as possible.

Of course, when they entered the lobby, they immediately found Wes, cutting a striking figure as he perched atop a table and stared down his nose at them.

"Just where," he said, steepling his fingers in an excellent impression of Kid, "have you two been?"

Both Soul and Maka began a litany of protests that fell on deaf ears. Wes held his hands up in surrender and they quieted.

"I don't want to know. I can only convey my disappointment…"

Maka's heart quickened. _Was he going to chastise her for corrupting his brother? Ask that she leave? Call the whole thing off? Could he tell, somehow, that she had taken him to the East End? Smell the whiskey on their breaths? Would he–_

"...That you weren't here when the _excellent_ news arrived!"

Both she and Soul must have looked dumbstruck because Wes smiled slightly and waved a piece of paper at them impatiently.

"An invitation! It seems Miss Hepburn was quite taken with your theatrics at the garden party, Miss Albarn!"

He cleared his throat and began to read before she or Soul could disabuse him of the notion that her actions in rescuing Anya's sister had been calculated.

" _Miss Anastasia Hepburn humbly requests the pleasure of hosting Viscount Evans and his brother the honorable Mr. Solomon Eaton, at the Opera on this October the 9th, 1910._

"Yes, and there is an envelope that's arrived for you too, Miss Maka. It is addressed to the Duchess, Lady Albarn! you must open it at once!"

He whipped an envelope out of his breast pocket and shot it at her like a dart. She fumbled to catch it and opened it to reveal a matching invitation.

"Wes, have you been waiting here all _night_ for us to arrive?" Soul looked torn between guilt and amusement. Wes ignored his brother and addressed Maka instead.

"And, much as you have just done, Miss Maka, I opened my own invitation. And here Lady Tsubaki and Kid gasped. You were not here, so you might not have known their reactions, but I shall tell you now they were most shocked and pleased by this turn of affairs."

"Does it say anything else–" Soul began, but Wes cut him off. Maka understood that this was the punishment for their lateness. They were going to listen, in _excruciating_ detail, to an account of how the news was originally received. She took pity on Soul and silently handed him her invitation, in answer to his question.

Wes continued without pause: "You may well be surprised, as they were, by this invitation. We had feared that the impropriety of Miss Albarn _disrobing_ before an entire company of guests and diving into a _river_ would prove too much for good society's sensibilities, but it appears that you have found the only thing which could make tongues wag more than my ingenious hat."

Maka gulped. She supposed it was good that no one would remember that hellacious hat, _but at what cost?_

Seeing that his audience looked appropriately reticent, Wes continued.

"There is a personal note written at the bottom:

 _Dear Viscount, I must impose upon you to express to your brother, and Lady Albarn as well, my heartfelt gratitude and eternal debt for their part in saving my little sister's life. Please do me the honor of accepting this invitation to join me at the Opera so that I may convey these sentiments in person._

 _Yours in deepest sincerity,_

 _Anastasia Y. Hepburn_ "

He finished the last piece breathlessly and flung aside the paper with a flourish.

There was a pause.

" _Well_?" Wes demanded.

"Well, what?" asked Soul.

Wes made an exasperated noise and prevailed upon Maka instead.

"Maka? Are you not excited for your very first opera?"

"I…"

"Unless, of course, I am gravely mistaken, and you make a regular _habit_ of attending operas, bedecked in sparkling jewels and fine furs?"

She knew that he had been looking forward to delivering this news and that they were disappointing him with their lacklustre responses. Soul's stoicism wasn't anything unusual, but for herself, she was having trouble mustering up enthusiasm about anything at the moment. She was still in a dour mood after the revelation about Soul and Blair from earlier, and her head was beginning to ache. And how, indeed, was she supposed to feel about the prospect of meeting Miss Hepburn, her "ultimate rival"? She had already failed rather spectacularly at the Garden Party. What fresh hell awaited at the Opera?

She began to voice these concerns but Wes suddenly jumped off the desk, clasped her hands in his, and began to pull her along in an impromptu waltz.

"Miss Albarn, I will hear none of it. You are a rose among thorns, a drop of honey in a sea of vinegar, a spot of sun on a cloudy day. When Miss Hepburn meets you, she will be dazzled by your spirit and your grace. She will be overcome with ambition to possess Soul for herself!"

He was _really_ happy about this invitation.

 _He must worry about his brother a great deal_ , she thought distractedly, for he was spinning her around the table and his brother in a great furious circle (the lobby attendants studiously ignored them all), and meanwhile gleefully assuring her that she would be a smashing success.

Wes dipped her low for a second, and from her prone position, she thought she saw Soul's eyebrows rise even as he leapt back to avoid a collision.

"But I– Wes – !"

"Don't you know that you've already done it? Why, your delightfully uncouth and uncultured ways will charm the stockings off all of London! _You are my greatest project_!"

She had long since stopped feeling offense at these kind of comments from Wes, and now would have taken it as encouragement if it hadn't sounded half so much like self-congratulation. Still, she couldn't help but glance at Soul to see what he thought about the arrangement.

His jaw was clenched and his spine straightened in such a way as could not be considered natural for such a professional sloucher.

Realizing that something was wrong, she gently disengaged from Wes and leaned upon the study to catch her breath.

"Soul?" She enquired, knowing he was unlikely to share his feelings, but feeling compelled to try anyway.

He looked at her with a carefully composed expression that told her absolutely nothing of his feelings. But his gaze lingered a second too long, and the joints of his fingers cracked as he subtly flexed his hands in what seemed like an unconscious habit.

He tore his gaze from her and turned to Wes instead. "Give her our answer, please. And our thanks for the invitation."

"We're going to the opera?" Maka asked, not without some trepidation.

"We're going to the opera," Soul confirmed with a weary sigh.

* * *

Maka retired to her room but found herself unable to sleep. She couldn't stop thinking about the way he had behaved in the study. What could his hesitation earlier in the lobby, his unreadable expression, have meant?

The best conclusion she could come to was not a happy one.

He was worried, either for her sake, or for his own. She knew by now that he had a delicate sense of dignity and that he worried overmuch about the way others might think of him, or of his family.

It was not that he was a snob, for he did not think himself better than others… Rather, he judged himself harshly and thought most everyone better than him.

He was worried she would fail at the opera, and that the evening would be a painful embarrassment for everyone. That miserable thought wormed inside her and refused to leave her alone.

Most likely, he also regretted their trip to the East End. He'd made it clear, after that disastrous attempt to kiss her, when he'd told her he was drunk and that they had better return to the hotel. She was sure that it was only the whiskey that had made him want to kiss her, and for herself, she knew, now that she was sober, that she had _no_ interest in being kissed by him anyway!

What good could come of it? He would soon be promised to another, anyway, and there was nothing she could do about it. Far better to invest her time in planning what she would do once the engagement was sealed and she was turned out, once more, onto the streets.

* * *

Wes, for his part, was dealing with his brother, who was apparently furious. After Maka had gone up to bed, he'd dragged him into one of the card rooms off the lobby and confronted him about his choice of words.

"Mind explaining yourself, Wes?"

"Soul, I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Wes said, stepping backwards into the card room with his arms outstretched in a calming gesture. He was taken aback. In all his life, his brother had never been so open in his anger, so direct, and, in fact, he could not remember his brother truly being angry at him, not like this.

"' _My greatest project?!'_ How could you speak about her that way? She isn't one of your porcelain figurines, Wes."

Wes lowered the invitations slowly. "I don't see why this is upsetting you so much. Miss Albarn _is_ mine, as surely as Pygmalion's sculpture was his. Though, I suppose that does beg the question… Does the art ever _truly_ belong to the artist?" he scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"She isn't a painting or a goddamn statue, Wes. She's a _person_! And I won't let you abuse her," Soul said fiercely, slamming the card room door behind him .

Wes was taken aback. "Why, Soul, where is this coming from? I am certain I have treated Miss Albarn as well as she deserves, from the moment I met her. In fact, on the whole, I might be tempted to say that I have treated her much better than is warranted. She is, after all, a flower grown from cobblestone streets. Without the watering and the proper sunlight, she might never have flourished– but you see–"

"And so you're fine with just– _uprooting her_ – after this is over? Throwing her out with the rubbish? What is she to do? Where is she to go? Have you thought of _that_?!"

Wes gave him a sharp look. "You underestimate Miss Albarn. She will fare well, no matter her circumstance, for she has charm and vivacity. And thanks to our efforts, she now has grace and manners. A person with these qualities shall never want for anything, so long as they are open to opportunity."

There was silence, and then Wes continued.

"Perhaps it is not Miss Albarn you should be worried about," the violinist said gently.

"What do you mean?"

"You're afraid that once this is over, once you have attached yourself to Miss Hepburn, Miss Albarn will be successful without you, and you shall not be successful without her. I fear you depend upon her too much for social interaction. Do not think your enthusiasm has gone unnoticed these past weeks. But I think your fears are unfounded– once you are married to Miss Hepburn, she shall become your world, and you shall not want for companionship or company. What these weeks with Miss Albarn have been is merely an empty echo of what your marital life shall be–"

Soul's expression now frightened him a bit, which was alarming because Wes was one of the few who had never been fazed by his sibling's features. He rushed to explain himself, though he could not, for the life of him, see what the matter was.

"Do not fear for Miss Albarn, brother." An idea struck him, and he continued excitedly, "Why, with her training, she would be an excellent catch for a married gentleman of means in need of a mistress–"

But then he was forced to take a pause, because Soul had grabbed him roughly by the lapel and yanked him quite harshly out of his comfort zone.

"Don't you _ever_ ," Soul growled into his face, baring his sharp teeth, "Speak that way about Maka again."

"Let go of me," Wes said coolly.

Soul was panting and his eyes were blazing. For the first time, Wes could see in his brother what his parents had always whispered about. He could see the same intensity that Soul wore when he played his compositions; and having such intensity directed at him was far beyond disconcerting– it was downright unnerving.

" _Soul._ "

Soul released him and walked swiftly out of the room. When the door shut behind him, the draft blew out the candles, and Wes was left in darkness.


	16. Chapter 16

Soul was shaking after the confrontation with his brother.

He went upstairs to his suite and walked onto the balcony to cool off, and also to avoid seeing Wes when he inevitably returned. It would be best if his brother would just go straight to bed so Soul wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of his outburst until morning.

Never had he felt so strongly, not unless he was playing the piano, and that was emotion directed and channelled in a less destructive manner, even if it still frightened people.

Yet he felt unapologetic about defending Maka. He had sworn to her, after the incident at the Garden Party, where she had so nearly died of fever, that he would never let anything or anyone hurt her. It was easier to direct his rage at Wes than to entertain the idea that perhaps he himself might be the one responsible for hurting her the most.

He should have put a stop to this scheme, before it ever got this far. How could Maka go back, how could he let her go back, now that she'd had a taste of the luxuries that London's elite enjoyed, now that he had seen the way she lived before their fateful meeting?

The eyes of the hungry children and beggars they had passed in the East End haunted him, even now, and he thought of those tired washerwomen and flower sellers, how their features had aged with stress and fatigue and backbreaking labour. How could he live, not knowing if Maka shared their fate?

Despite Wes' idea to make her some sort of courtesan, Soul was certain she would never accept the affections of a man unless she truly loved him. So that kind of future was out of the question. He wondered if he should feel guilty, for he was relieved at the idea that Maka would not willingly become someone's mistress, even if doing so would guarantee her future.

It was foolish (and selfish) for him to feel relieved; she had made it clear beyond a doubt that she was not interested, could never be interested in him that way. The speech she had given at the tavern after his attempt to kiss her still made him burn with shame and he hoped she would forgive him for his indelicacy if he never brought it up again. They had both had too much to drink, that was clear, and she had drawn boundaries when she reminded him of his purpose in wooing Miss Hepburn.

His knuckles gripped the railing of the balcony until his skin turned pale white, and then a voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Soul? Is that you?"

It was Maka, leaning out over the edge of her balcony and waving to him. Since her suite was adjoining the one he shared with his brother, the balconies were quite close, separated only by an unrailed ledge that jutted out as far as the balconies themselves. During the summer these ledges were used to hold windowboxes and potted plants, but since the weather had gotten cold, there was nothing between them, and he imagined a person could probably walk between the balconies if they were careful.

Was that what Maka was trying to do?!

"Don't lean like that, you'll fall over!" he exclaimed.

"That's ridiculous!" she responded, but she stopped leaning over.

"No it isn't. I lifted you when we were dancing, and it felt like you've been eating rocks."

She screeched and he laughed a little, completely thrilled with the idea that he could tease her from a place where she couldn't get to him with a book. But his smile faltered when he realized that he had brought up their dancing, despite his private vow to never speak of that again.

Maka didn't seem upset, though, beyond his comment about her weight, so he hoped the moment would pass without her notice.

"Hey, what are you doing on the balcony anyway?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," she told him, a little shyly. "Our balconies connecting like this– I wonder how we didn't realize it until now?"

He shrugged again. "We were probably never out here at the same time."

She hummed in agreement and an awkward silence settled between them.

"Well, I think I'll–"

"Maka, I've been meaning to–"

They both spoke at once, and then both paused to let the other continue. Finally, Maka gestured for Soul to go on.

He scratched the back of his neck.

"It probably doesn't matter, but I want you to know the truth about something. I don't want you to think ill of me– there was something that came up, when we were at the tavern, and we saw that lady–"

"Blair?" Maka asked sharply.

"Err, I suppose so… Well, when we met Blair… I didn't tell you about how I knew her, but–"

"Soul. You really don't need to tell me–" Maka began stiffly. He had never heard her voice sound so empty.

"No, please let me finish, Maka. When we saw her, she recognized me because a few years ago, Wes took me to this place…"

Oh God, this was almost too embarrassing to continue. He saw revulsion in Maka's eyes and forced himself to keep going.

"This place, called Chupacabra's…"

"I am very aware of that place."

"Alright, so, Wes took me to Chupacabra's. He was on some nonsense about making me a man or something, and I don't know, he paid a lot of money to someone there. And we– we got a room, and–"

"Soul, please don't make me listen to this, I can imagine well enough–"

"No! Because– because nothing happened!"

"What–?"

"I– we just played cards, alright?"

He paused to let this sink in. The last day had been an emotional whirlwind, and of course, it would end with him divulging his most embarrassing secret to a woman he admired.

He expected her to laugh at him, to mock him, or perhaps to refuse to believe him. Instead she looked very serious.

"You just… played cards."

"Yeah, we, ah– I just couldn't. I just didn't– not like that, not with someone I– it just, didn't feel... I wanted it to be someone I–"

"Soul."

"Ah-yes?"

"I understand."

He swallowed hard and nodded, wishing he could melt through the balcony railing and ooze onto the street below where some obliging gutter would allow him refuge.

"Thank you... for telling me." She sounded so small and vulnerable, and he couldn't understand for the life of him what that meant; he only knew that she wasn't laughing at him, and so he could bear it.

"Don't tell Wes," he said quietly.

"I won't."

His piece finished, Soul desperately hoped Maka would speak, because he couldn't bear to go to bed on such an awkward note, and his conversational initiative had been exhausted with the confession.

Finally, she took a deep breath, and he began to suspect that she felt she owed him some secret of her own.

"My father…" she said hesitantly, and Soul was instantly on alert. He knew, from small things she had said, that her father was a cheat, that she was disgusted with him, but he also knew that she cared very much for him, deep down. Otherwise, she would never have agreed to this scheme in order to free him.

"He, ah, worked at Chupacabra's. Apparently he… frequented the place enough that they hired him on."

"I see."

Now Soul understood better why Maka had reacted the way she did in the tavern when Blair had confronted him.

"My mama left because of his infidelity…"

He moved closer, trying to hear her better, as her voice had gotten very small.

"I haven't, um, seen her since."

"Do you miss her?"

"Yes," she wasn't looking at him anymore, but out over the city, and he saw her touch her face subtly, just under her eyes. Then she gave a hollow laugh. "But I know she misses me too, and I'll see her again someday! ...I understand why she left."

Soul privately felt that he was not being given the whole story, but he didn't want to push her. She had shared something very private with him, and he was honored just to be trusted. The thought of anyone abandoning Maka made his insides twist painfully, and the warning bells in the back of his mind began to chime, sounding very much like guilt.

Someday, would she tell someone about him, and laugh in that same hollow way?

These were thoughts that plagued him long after they had bid each other goodnight and gone back to their rooms.

Though he knew Maka did not return his affections, he wished there were something he could do for her anyway. She had become a friend and a partner to him, and he slept fitfully, plagued by visions of tired flower sellers and grimy washerwomen.

But when the sun rose several hours later, he could confidently say he had a plan.

After the late night she'd had, Maka slept halfway through breakfast and decided she might as well begin to get ready for lunch once she was awake enough to climb out of bed.

The attendants brought her tea and scones and she decided to pass the time before lunch lounging on the sofa until the others were ready. She had just cracked the spine of a particularly thrilling-looking novel when Wes burst into the sitting room.

"What's happened? What's the matter?" she cried, throwing her new copy of 'The Phantom of the Opera' into the air.

"We're going ice skating, you'd better hurry up and get dressed for it."

"But I haven't eaten lunch yet– what's the rush?" she asked.

"No time, we need to get there NOW!" Wes screamed, and Maka jumped another three feet into the air.

She finally let him steer her out the door and toward Lady Tsubaki's suite, even though she still didn't understand the rush, and she had other objections.

"Wes, I have nothing warm enough for skating!"

"Why do you think I'm taking you to Lady Tsubaki," he panted. "See if she'll lend you something."

"But I– I don't know how to skate–"

Lady Tsubaki opened the door and Maka all but fell into her arms. Soul stepped away from the threshold and dashed back the way he had come.

"We're leaving in ten minutes!" he called out behind him. "If you don't come in exactly ten minutes there will be more boiling water in your future!"

Maka growled and Lady Tsubaki stood shaking her head. "Well, you better come in, then."

Ten minutes later, she was wearing her green and white striped wool walking dress and a gray silk coat. The ensemble looked chic, but Maka still had doubts.

"This coat won't be nearly enough to keep me warm for ice skating!" she protested. Wes's taste in fashion was indeed very impressive, but his preparedness for the winter clime was hardly to be commended. Lady Tsubaki had also lent her a fur stole that was quite pretty, but she very much doubted any of this could be depended upon to keep her warm. She had seen the garments that masqueraded as winterwear for the rich– an abundance of silk and toile, perhaps trimmed in fur, but hardly suited to the harshness of a freezing London chill. After all, what occasion had the rich to spend time outdoors, when they could be posted up by a roaring fire at a warm and bright hearth?

Those who were more accustomed to journeys on foot to the market or the bank invested more wisely in wool…

But… didn't she still have her old coat, somewhere in the back of the closet at her suite? She'd refused to part with such a precious item, given that she'd spent what had (at the time) been an astonishing amount to purchase it.

"I'll be right back," she said to an impatient Soul, and dashed back to her room to retrieve the coat.

If Soul noticed that she was wearing the wool coat instead of the silk one, he said nothing. His brother, however, was not so easily dissuaded. Once they arrived at the lake, which was in a park quite close to the Crescent Moon, she began to disembark from the carriage and he saw her full outfit.

"What on God's green earth are you trying to do to me, Miss Albarn? Drive me into an early grave? Just hammer another nail into my coffin, you vicious traitor!"

"Save it," she told him. "I'm not giving up this coat."

He opened his mouth to protest, but then he spotted something – or someone – over her shoulder.

"Miss Hepburn!" he called, and both Maka and Soul froze.

So the famous Miss Hepburn was here? Maka began to fidget, even as she turned to follow Soul's gaze. Perhaps she ought to have worn the other coat after all… No! She would not be cowed. She was worthy of being a rival to this woman, even in inferior clothing.

The woman Wes had indicated was strolling towards them, with an old man, presumably a butler, by her side. She looked very elegant, with long blonde hair and an energetic figure. Maka noticed that she was dressed modestly, but even so it was clear that she was quite beautiful.

This was the woman she was meant to rival. But there was no time to prepare, no time to react, because she was level with them now– And somehow she just knew Wes had planned this, she knew he had, that moldy barnacle–

"Alfred, my muff," Miss Hepburn said to the man beside her when she drew near, and he took the rabbit fur muff she handed him. Her hands were slim and pale and delicate, and she did not stumble or flinch when Wes kissed the top of her hand, though she did not look particularly happy about it, either.

"Viscount, how nice to see you again," she said stiffly, nodding to Wes and then to Soul. "Mr. Eaton, I presume. So nice to see you now, when I had expected to have to wait until the opera."

Then she turned to Maka and her face broke into a wide smile. "Lady Albarn?"

Maka glanced slyly at Wes, who indicated she should nod, and so she did just that. Miss Hepburn curtsied demurely, and then stepped closer. "You must call me Anya. I have so been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Lady Albarn. I hear nothing but glowing reviews from my sister. The garden party is all she talks about."

"I am glad to hear that her memories of the party are not as terrible as may be expected from anyone who was made to endure what Rachel did," said Maka. "The water was very cold."

"Well, thanks to you, there was no lasting harm."

"Soul helped too," Maka reminded her, and he paused guiltily in his mission to slide behind Wes and out of direct sight of Miss Hepburn.

"Of course," said Anya airily. "Do you skate, Lady Albarn?"

"Err…" she looked to Wes again, afraid that her inexperience might reveal her common origins. His face betrayed nothing, and so she took a gamble. "No, I am afraid I grew up in India, where it is quite warm all the time, and so I have never had occasion to skate."

"India? You must tell me all about it," said Anya. "Forgive me, but did you interact with a great many… commoners, there?"

Maka paused. "Well, it couldn't be avoided, I suppose," she said, trying to sound casual, but feeling rather nauseous. What if she said something wrong and ruined the entire scheme? "But for the most part I lived in the court of the Maharaja where my father was a Resident representative of the British Empire."

"Were there elephants?!" Anya asked very intensely, and then seemed to notice that everyone was staring at her. "Terrible creatures…" she muttered, flushing slightly.

"Err, yes, there were indeed elephants... from time to time," Maka said vaguely.

Wes was overcome by a sudden coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

When he recovered, he flashed his most charming smile, grabbed Soul's arm (the younger Eaton brother had been sliding further and further away since Miss Hepburn's appearance) and began to usher them all toward the lake. "Miss Hepburn, you simply must join our party for skating. We would be so honored to have you as our guest…" Anya looked hesitant at first, but at Maka's encouraging smile, she accepted.

"Shall we get in line for skates?" Wes asked, and they followed his lead. Once they made it into the line, they were surprised to see a group of people from the Crescent Moon. "Lady Albarn!" called Ox Ford, from the front of the queue, and Maka, Soul, and Wes all let loose with identical groans. He extricated himself from the others (Mr. Rung and the twins were there, as well as Mr. D'Eclair, who did not even smile in greeting) and came to speak with them.

"Skip the line, friends," said Ox Ford with a smarmy grin. "Join us at the front, where there is no need to wait."

They were forced to join his party then, and Maka found herself inexplicably engaged in conversation with the one person she wished to avoid as much as Miss Hepburn. What a day this was turning out to be!

She noticed Soul frowning as Ox helped her tie on her ice skates, and wondered if he wasn't just as nervous as she was about this whole situation. Now that she'd told Anya about growing up in India, she was forced to stick to her story, and Mr. Ford had actually been to India! Maka only hoped her extensive reading could provide her with enough plausible details to get her through a few hours of grilling by a professional imposter-revealer.

… By the time they made it onto the ice, she was ready to skate into a thin patch and drown herself, as she was certain the experience would be less harrowing than answering Ox's questions. No matter how she tried to change the subject or shake him off to join Soul and Anya and Wes, he persisted, like a stubborn mold, in attaching himself.

The good news was that, after discovering the multitude of activities for which she had no talent (the watercolor lessons with Patricia were still a sore point), Maka was relieved to find that she was more than up to the task of skating. In fact, after some initial scraping and scrabbling, she found that she was quite good at it, and eager to glide in circles around the rest of the party. She was much better than Ox, and so she solved her initial problems by skating away from him whenever his questioning became too pointed. Eventually, Wes was obliged to skate beside her and instruct her to be less confident, so that Soul might have an excuse to hold her hand and skate beside her where Anya might see.

"But that's stupid," she told him. "I'm a better skater. I can just hold his hand and help him."

Wes threw up his hands in exasperation. "You two are impossible. I do not care, Miss Albarn, whether you are the better skater or whether it is Soul. Hold his hand and make sure Miss Hepburn sees it."

In truth, Maka was hoping to avoid holding Soul's hand altogether, for fear of playing her part too well. She simply could not trust herself around him anymore. Much of her resolution to sever her attachment to him had dissolved the night before, when he had told her, in such a halting manner, of his embarrassing night at Chupacabra's. It was so unlike what she might expect of a man like her father, (and by now, really she should have known better than to expect Soul to behave like her Papa, but all her life she had been surrounded by such men and it was so hard to break from that) that she found herself quite disarmed and uncertain of how to handle the feelings that Soul aroused. She did not want to trust him, and yet, and yet…

She was broken out of this line of thinking by the howling of Ox Ford, who seemed to have fallen heavily onto his rear trying to catch up to her. He grumbled, even as his companions teased him good-naturedly, and rubbing his backside in pain, he made plans to leave the ice at once.

Maka sighed in relief when she saw him return his skates to the attendants at the skate rental. Once he stopped skating, his companions lost their interest as well, and the whole party left the arena. She was not sorry to see them go.

After a while of skating, Soul and Anya joined her to take a break by the fire pit. It was then that Maka noticed Anya shivering and trying valiantly to hide it.

"Would you like to borrow my coat?" she asked kindly. "I've no need for it. All this exercise has made me rather hot."

Maka fanned herself for emphasis, and Anya stared at her coat thoughtfully for several moments. She blushed when Maka caught her looking, and mumbled something about the style being the same as was favored by commoners.

"It– it is not!" Maka protested hotly. Soul widened his eyes at her in warning, and Anya stuck her hand out resolutely. "Very well, Lady Albarn. I shall wear the common vestment if it shall please you." Her nose was in the air as she said it, and Maka very much wondered if the chill in the air might be caused by her nose blocking out the sun.

But Anya did look rather delighted with the coat once she had put it on, and she certainly seemed warmer, so Maka resolved to try to get along with her. Anya had given her the coat she had been wearing, a beautiful off-white, velvet creation with blue ribbon detailing and lace trim. It wasn't any warmer than a cotton shift, but Maka didn't mind. She was much too delighted with the rabbit-fur muff, which Anya had retrieved from her severe butler, Alfred, and given Maka to wear.

The girls returned to the ice and Wes caught up with Soul at the hot chocolate stand.

Somehow, he managed to look graceful, even as he came tripping onto dry ground on his skates.

"You're supposed to take your skates off when you aren't on the ice," Soul told him, then winced. Since when had he become such a lecturer? Must be Maka's influence.

Wes only laughed and clapped him on the back. "Get me a tea, won't you, Brother?"

Soul scowled. "I'm already carrying Maka's and Miss Hepburn's drinks."

"Oh, good, good. Don't spoil them too much, or they'll walk all over you. Speaking of which, don't say I never did anything for you. It's no coincidence that we are here at the same time as Miss Hepburn– I've had all the street children round her estate running me intelligence every time her party leaves the house."

"So that was the reason for the rush this morning. You ought to be arrested," Soul said flatly, to which Wes shrugged.

"Probably. But Kid is already so busy– Oh! I forgot to tell you, there's been an update on the case involving Maka's father. Kid thinks there may be two murderers working in collaboration to kill the victims. The media's got it all wrong."

"As long as one of those two isn't Maka's father, I don't see how that's a problem for us," Soul said. He was still wrapping his head around the fact that Wes was running an orphan spy syndicate, though really, he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Where are the girls?" Wes asked, and Soul shrugged.

"Well, more for us," said the violinist, and they both grinned, each taking one of the ladies' drinks for themselves.

Soul had been subtly trying to speak to Maka alone for the better part of the afternoon, but every time he got close, she would skate out of reach. It was a frustratingly apt metaphor for their entire situation and he'd had enough. If she couldn't be in reach in real life, he would at least reach her on the ice, dammit.

There was also the problem of Anya. She had been following Maka like a shadow, drifting along behind her, seemingly desperate not to be left out. It occurred to him that Anya must not have very many friends, if her only company for ice skating was to be her horrible butler. He could empathize with that kind of loneliness, but right now that was not his concern.

Finally he resorted to loitering by a group of teenage girls who spread out across the ice in a loose circle, laughing and waving their arms in an impression of some hapless youth a few yards off. When he saw Maka come round, he skated directly to her and caught her head on.

"Maka, I need to talk to you, quickly." His face was hot and he thought his hands might be shaking, but he needed to say this before anyone interrupted them. "I have something for you."

"Ooh, am I getting one of these fur muffs? Because they're really soft. Only, I hope it isn't skunk like the Baroness had– oh, I'm getting spoiled. What is it, Soul?"

He looked around and leaned in to hiss in her ear. "Not now. Come out to the balcony tonight at midnight and I'll give it to you there."

She gave him a quizzical look but was met with the back of his head. He'd already skated off to another part of the lake. She shook her head in confusion, and Anya (who had arrived just in time to witness his hasty departure) huffed.

"Men," she said softly.

Wes watched Soul shooting furtive glances at Miss Hepburn throughout the afternoon. He watched from afar, to get a more objective view, and he could barely make out their figures on the ice. He supposed it was lucky, after all, that Maka had brought that ghastly coat, because it made it easy to spot her dark figure on the ice. Oddly enough, she seemed to be tailing Anya more often than not.

Soul, for his part, was avoiding Maka with every fiber of his being and concentrating only on getting Anya alone. At one point he very obviously stationed himself behind a group of teenage girls and practically ambushed Miss Hepburn. But as soon as Maka had skated up, he'd dashed off again, and Wes couldn't understand what sort of game he was playing. Indeed, he had never known his brother to be particularly capable of playing games, much to his disappointment. But it did seem that Miss Hepburn was interested. He watched her blue and white coat bobbing through the crowds in an attempt to get close to Soul, and caught her looking at him whenever his back was turned.

My matchmaking plans are coming along splendidly, he thought to himself with glee.

That night, she met him on the balcony, just as planned. He was already waiting when she stepped outside. It was a simple matter to clamber over the ledge dividing their respective balconies, but she still squawked in alarm as he climbed over the railing of her balcony.

"Be careful!"

"I'm already finished climbing," he told her, and it was true, so she stopped fussing and waited expectantly for whatever it was he had come to give her.

"Um, I wanted… you to have these." He handed her a silver box, with a large, engraved "E" on the top. Inside lay a pair of red gem earrings, shaped like teardrops and suspended from white crystals.

"They're beautiful… Oh, Soul, what–where did you–"

"They were my grandmother's. She left them to me when she died, since she thought that Wes wouldn't have any trouble finding a wife with the fortune, and I, well– I look like this, so–"

"Look like what?" Maka glanced sharply at Soul's face, which was mostly covered in shadow from the cornice above them. "Soul, what are you talking about?"

"Look, forget it, okay. That's not what I meant to say. Just, I don't know, I was hoping you would maybe want to wear them or something– I mean, I can't do anything with them, so–"

She put him out of his misery. "Of course I will. They're lovely. May I try them on?"

He gestured helplessly. "Of course, go ahead, they're yours–"

"Oh no, Soul, I couldn't take them. These must have cost a fortune, and such a sentimental item– I'll just borrow them for a bit, while we're fooling Miss Hepburn."

"...Fooling Miss Hepburn," he said faintly. "Yes, of course."

"I'll be right back!" she told him merrily, and dashed into her room.

He sat on the edge of the balcony and marinated, lost in desolate speculation. She hadn't understood. Perhaps that was for the best, as he suspected she did not return his affections. But... she hadn't refused to wear them, and that, at least, gave him hope. Still, perhaps that hope was in vain, as she thought it was all for Anya's sake–!

He'd been a fool. Of course she wouldn't recognize the earrings as the token of esteem he meant them to be. When they'd spent the entirety of their partnership conspiring to help him woo another woman, how could he hope to convey to Maka the importance of her presence in his life?

"Soul, will you come in?"

He raised his head from where it was cradled in his hands. She wanted him to– come in her room?

Perhaps she had understood better than he had hoped… But no– Maka wasn't– she would never be so bold–

He fought the surge of hope rising within him at her invitation and took several deep breaths to calm himself before approaching the balcony door.

"Maka?" He hesitated at the doorway, not prepared to enter a woman's room unless he was quite firmly instructed to do so.

"Bother! I can't quite– hurry up, Soul, for goodness' sake. Come help me put these things on!"

A curious mix of disappointment and relief crashed over him. She wanted help putting the earrings on– of course!

He cautiously made his way into her suite, trying not to look too eager, trying not to imagine being invited here under different circumstances.

She turned around when he knocked on the door frame, flashing him a brilliant smile that made his mouth go dry and his mind go blank. She'd taken off her coat and sat at her boudoir in nothing but her ruffled nightdress and silk dressing gown. He really oughtn't to be so distracted, seeing her like this– he'd seen her in less clothing–far less– although the reminder of her, wet, nearly naked, and shivering in his arms was not particularly helpful in clearing his head.

"Well, come on," she told him, cocking her head to the side, as though she could not understand why he was behaving so oddly.

He prayed she couldn't understand. The motion of her head had revealed a creamy expanse of neck, which peeped over the top of her nightdress, just begging to be kissed, tasted, caressed–

Soul closed his eyes and took one last calming breath, daring himself to imagine the least tantalizing things he could conceive– spiders, spoilt milk, scraped knees–

He walked stiffly to where Maka waited. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, ungloved and delicate. What would it feel like to take them into his hands, feel her bare fingers tracing the line of his jaw, to kiss the tops of her knuckles, the tips of her fingers?

"Soul?"

He gave a guilty jump and raised shaking hands to move her hair away from her neck – her neck! A stubborn blonde tendril needed stroking away, and he felt her pulse leaping beneath his touch, felt her throat constricting as she swallowed.

She sat very still, and he wondered if she was holding her breath. It seemed she was, because when his fingers brushed against the back of her neck, she let out a heavy sigh that surprised them both.

His fingers were clumsy, but he tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear and gently lifted the rest of it over her other shoulder, so that her ear was uncovered and ready to be speared with a jewel.

He felt her shiver as he moved her hair– was she uncomfortable with him touching her this way? He hadn't done anything beyond what the situation required– but perhaps she had changed her mind.

He paused.

"Here's the earring." She pressed it into his palm and then– his undoing– she bit her lower lip.

It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen, somehow, and he nearly had to excuse himself– but no, they were almost done, and he couldn't lose his composure over something so innocent as a bitten lip and that look on her face. She was peeking at him over her shoulder, from beneath fringed lashes, and raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

His hands were shaking so badly that it was a wonder he was able to get the earring through her ear at all, but somehow, after a few startled squeaks from her and hasty apologies from him, the hook slid through.

He straightened and caught her eye in the mirror. As her eyes met his, she blushed a deep, hot red– almost the color of the earrings.

The blush turned her ears hot– he could almost feel steam rising from them. As he leaned in to slide the other earring in, she shifted and her dressing gown fell open a bit, giving him a glorious and completely accidental view down her nightdress. He bit back a groan and tore his eyes away – the blush on her face and ears clearly extended well past her neck, all the way to her chest and down the slopes of her petite but shapely breasts–

"All done," he said gruffly. It was for the best that she was not facing him, for his body had betrayed him and he found himself indisposed to any kind of discretion. He feared that she would turn around and everything would become horribly awkward.

But to his fervent relief, she was riveted only to her reflection in the mirror. "Oh, Soul," Maka murmured softly, twisting her head this way and that to better admire the earrings. "See how they sparkle in the light? I've never seen glass sparkle like that–"

He laughed. "They aren't glass– they're rubies and diamonds. Did you think I'd make you wear glass?"

She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh dear, no, Soul, I couldn't, these are much too precious–"

"Please wear them, Maka," he told her quietly. "I can't tell you how much– how much it would mean to me, to have you wearing them at the opera."

"But Soul– oughtn't you to give them to– to Anya? She is to be your– your wife," she looked down at her lap and spoke so quietly he could barely hear. "And surely, this jewelry would befit a bride far better than an– imposter."

He placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and their eyes met in the mirror.

"Maka. There is no one these earrings would befit better than you. They look beautiful on you. They are yours."

They were both blushing now, but their eye contact remained unbroken as Maka lifted a hand and let it come to rest upon one of Soul's, still perched upon her shoulder.

"Please say you'll at least wear them to the opera, Maka."

Her eyes shone with something that was not quite happiness, but she nodded. "I'll wear them, of course I will. Thank you." Her hand squeezed his, then let go, and he understood that it was his cue to leave her to prepare for bed.

It was well he left when he did, because if he had lingered, he would have seen her begin to cry, tears slipping down her cheeks as she shook with silent sobs.


	17. Chapter 17

Warnings for Ch 19: spoilers for the opera Salome, which features the brutal death of John the Baptist and the title character and y'know necrophilia and incest. It's strange, man. I didn't make this up. (See AN at bottom for trivia)

In the hour before the show was set to begin, Wes informed Maka that they would be making social rounds and ensuring that she was seen with Soul. Miss Hepburn would join them later, in her box, and so there was nothing to do but admire the fine clothing of the people around her and submit herself to the endless parade of introductions.

Although it seemed as if half of London was in attendance, Maka already knew most of the people the Eatons greeted. Lady Tsubaki was there, in a stunning midnight blue kimono, her hair piled atop her head in a traditional Japanese style. She was speaking to Mr. Mifune and laughing about something, which made Maka happy to see.

Kid and the Thompson sisters were there as well. They looked rather miserable, as Kid had required them to wear matching maroon dresses that did not flatter them in the slightest.

"I'm looking forward to the music, and the darkness of the theatre," was all Liz would say, if anyone asked.

"Where are you sitting?" Maka asked, wishing she could join them, rather than be scrutinized by Anya's father and butler, who would be joining them later in the theatre box, once the show began.

"We're sitting with Lady Tsubaki, in the Nakatsukasa's box," answered Patti, who had made it her goal to procure hors d'oeuvres from every passing waiter. "We gotta escape, though. She and Mr. Mifune are gonna be making lovey eyes at each other…"

Liz grimaced. "That's just two less people to stare at these horrible outfits Kid made us wear."

Maka gave her a sympathetic look and was about to say something when Wes appeared and clapped her on the shoulder. "Come and meet our cousin, Maka." She glanced at Soul, who was behind Wes, and saw that he looked pained.

A striking woman with plaited hair and a vermillion gown turned around as they approached.

"Cousin Shaula, I had no idea you would be in attendance! And looking as lovely as ever, I see! It is a pity we are related–" Wes stooped to kiss her hand.

Maka and Soul gagged and even Liz and Patti raised their eyebrows.

"He could give my Papa a run for his money…" Maka whispered to Soul.

"Can't take him anywhere." Soul muttered.

"Always a pleasure to see you, dear Wes," simpered Shaula. Then she looked over at Soul and Maka and blanched. Wes, who didn't seem to notice her change in demeanor, continued speaking, but Maka felt very nervous indeed. Shaula looked suspiciously familiar, and she couldn't quite shake the feeling that they had met somewhere before…

"Will your dear stepmother be attending the performance this evening?" Wes asked, and Shaula looked at him in annoyance, as though she had forgotten he was even there.

"Lady Arachne has taken ill," she snapped, turning to him for only the briefest of moments before staring at Maka again. "I have left her in the care of my brother, tonight. He was kind enough to agree to watch over her so that my dear husband and I could attend the opera."

"Oh dear, I hope she will be recovered by the time of the ball! We have been so looking forward to attending that, you know," Wes said solicitously.

Maka grabbed Soul's arm and squeezed gently, trying to indicate that there was something wrong. She didn't know why Shaula gave her such a bad feeling, but she wanted to be as far away from the woman as possible.

"Do not fear," Shaula said to Wes, still staring unblinkingly at Maka. "My brother is an excellent caretaker. I have no doubt that Lady Arachne will be in a much better place by the date of the ball."

Wes smiled and nodded, and moved so that he was blocking Shaula's view. Soul had picked up on her warning signals, and he laid a hand on her elbow and steered her toward the punch, making sure no one was nearby before he spoke.

"Sorry she stared at you like that. I can't believe she's here. Shaula is the worst and I make a point not to talk to her," he told Maka.

"She looks terribly familiar, Soul," Maka murmured. "I'm afraid I may have met her when I worked for the Smiths!"

"It will be alright," he told her. "We'll keep her far away from you. I never liked her anyway."

Maka raised her eyebrows, and Soul elaborated.

"She has an absolute vendetta against me because our grandmother always liked me better. I spent a lot of my childhood at my grandmother's house, because I was usually just in the way at home." He scratched the back of his neck for a moment, as though there was more to his story, but ultimately seemed to decide against it. "...Anyway, I used to dread Shaula coming over. She takes delight in tormenting her victims. Let's avoid her."

Maka touched her earrings, remembering what Soul had said about his grandmother giving them to him before she died. She must really have loved him…

"I didn't know you lived with your grandmother." Soul hardly ever opened up about anything to do with his past, so she was eager to get as much out of him as possible while he was in a forthcoming mood.

"Yeah well, only for a couple of years before she died. Took everyone by surprise– she was in perfect health. The police looked into it briefly, but since her will was never found and she had no contact with close family besides us kids, they couldn't find any motive or any suspects, so the case was dropped."

"And you moved back in with your parents."

"Well, they traveled a lot… Once we'd outgrown our governess, it was pretty much just Wes and me and the servants in the house a lot of the time, so it wasn't too bad."

How lonely he must have been, Maka thought, and she was momentarily overcome by a wave of protectiveness and affection for Soul. It was clear he had been treated so poorly by his family all his life, and for all of Wes's flaws, she had to acknowledge that his brother had at least offered him the unconditional support and love that no one else had.

It made her terribly sad to think about. Soul deserved so much more.

The ushers began indicating that the show was about to start, so she and Soul moved to their seats, but she resolved to puzzle out the mystery of Soul and his family, and most of all, his mysterious and sinister cousin, whenever she next got the chance.

As they began to enter the theatre, Maka noticed that the Baroness von Diehl was there as well. She wore a simple turquoise silk gown that dipped daringly in the back, but all eyes were drawn to the top of her head. Her hair was spun into a coiffure reaching at least a foot and a half high, complete with a spray of white ostrich feathers and glittering diamonds.

Wes, who was coming to join Maka and Soul, saw the Baroness and tried to break free from Shaula's grip, but she held fast and dragged him up close to the woman.

"We shall not be able to see the show," hissed Shaula loudly, so loudly that everyone within a thirty foot radius could clearly hear. Everyone paused on their way into the theatre and awaited the Baroness's reaction to this challenge.

Kimberly von Diehl snapped her fan open with a pointed look at the angry young woman and favored her with a smug little smile. "Miss Gorgon, my hair is the show."

While Shaula hissed and sputtered incoherently, Maka saw Ox Ford and Miss Dupre working together to break the Baroness out of her gloating and drag her with them into the theatre before she caused a traffic jam.

Maka's worries about meeting Anya's father were assuaged when she realized how little opportunity they would have for conversation inside the actual theatre. They had no sooner joined the (rather angry looking) old man and his daughter in their box than the performance began to start.

The opera was very grand– and very strange. The production featured biblical figures, so Maka had mistakenly expected to see some sort of nativity pageant or mystery play, but she was severely wrong.

What the audience was treated to, instead, was a scandalous princess Salome, whose Dance Of the Seven Veils caused several ladies present to faint. When she took off her final veil and lay naked and prone at the court of King Herod, there were gasps and shocked murmurs filling the theatre.

But none of this would compare to the eventual sight of Salome licking blood off the lips of the severed head of John the Baptist.

Anya's opera box was dark and Maka could not see her theatre companions as well as she might like, but she could tell that Soul, who sat directly beside her, was entranced by the music. His fingers twitched on the armrests in time with the instrumental movements onstage, and when she opened her program to read the foreword by the conductor, she saw the music described as an "orchestral cacophony". Maka smiled. That sounded exactly like how she would describe Soul's music, if she were forced to describe something like that, which seemed to go beyond words.

She could not tell if he was enjoying himself or merely affected deeply by the performance– and she imagined that for someone with as many anxieties as he had, this might be a stressful outing. Then she realized she was spending more time analyzing Soul than the performance itself, and mentally chopped herself over the head with her program.

Soul was deeply affected by the performance, and not only because of the music, which sang to his very blood. The perverse attraction Kind Harod held for his stepdaughter, Salome, was making Soul uncomfortable beyond what he felt the situation deserved. How, indeed, could he watch a man lusting after a woman inappropriately and not be reminded of his inexcusable desire for Maka? There was something wrong with him– he needed help.

Ever since that night in her room, when he had helped her put in her earrings, he couldn't stop thinking of the way her skin had felt beneath his fingers, the way she had looked at him from across the room, inviting and challenging all at once… To say nothing of that accidental sighting of her breasts, dear God–

When she leaned over to tell him to stop squirming in his seat, he nearly jumped out of his skin. The feeling of her fingers on his arm and her breath in his ear made him downright twitchy. It didn't help that Wes had dressed her in Madame Moljnir's finest creation yet– a gown of flowing green silk, the color of her eyes… The color of her eyes when she had asked him, at the tavern, to find out how soft her lips really were...

He shot up from his seat.

"I need to get some air," he said hurriedly, tearing the program out of Maka's hands. He had never been so grateful for the darkness of an opera box before. She made a startled noise but he was already running toward the exit.

After it seemed clear that Soul was not coming back, Maka resolved to hunt him down and drag him back for the conclusion of the show. He was missing all the best parts!

However, as she exited the theatre, she bumped right into a person she definitely recognized from her past, someone she had hoped never to see again.

She didn't know his name, but she certainly knew his face. He was a frequent visitor and close friend of her old employer, Gerrick Smith.

She ducked her head as she stumbled backwards, hoping he hadn't caught her features. But it appeared she was too late.

"What the hell?!" he asked. "What're you doing here?"

"I– I– I– beg your pardon, but I– have we–" she stammered, worried not only about her identity being discovered, but also for her safety as well. Mr. Smith and his friends were a rough sort, and she suddenly remembered Liz words, "If I ever see Gerrick Smith or his friends again…"

"Shaul, look a' this– the bitch wearing your ruby earrings looks familiar, don't she?"

Shaula Gorgon stepped out of the shadows and wound her arm around the man, who Maka could now only assume was her husband. So that was why Shaula looked familiar!

"Jason," said Shaula sweetly, "Don't scare the poor girl."

"But Shaula, she's one of them maids from your brother's house–"

Maka felt as if her blood had turned to ice. Gerrick Smith was Shaula Gorgon's brother?

"And she's wearing your earrings!"

"These earrings are mine," said Maka loudly, backing away. "Soul gave them to me."

"You're a thief and he's a degenerate," said Shaula slowly. "But don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you."

"I will not be threatened," Maka said, sounding much braver than she felt. These two could destroy her scheme in an instant– and then the Eaton name would be ruined, and Kid wouldn't represent her father, and –

"Oh, I don't need to threaten you, dear," Shaula said. "Ox Ford would handle that for me. I wonder, does he know that you're just a poor housemaid–"

"He knows that it's never acceptable to use his name to threaten and corner an innocent lady," said a voice from behind Maka, and she turned to see Ox Ford himself striding out from an alcove.

"Lady Albarn, I do hope these two are merely playing an elaborate practical joke," said Ox, offering her his arm, which she accepted.

"Indeed, that is exactly what has happened here," Maka said, glaring at Shaula and Jason.

"Please do me the honor of escorting you wherever it is you need to go, Madame," replied Ox, and Maka let him guide her away from the shocked and frustrated faces of her newest enemies.

"Mr. Ford," Maka said softly. "I–"

"You do not need to say anything," said Ox. "It will be alright. I am not so ungallant as to threaten a woman who is merely trying to keep her father from hanging."

Maka's jaw dropped. "What the– how did you know?!"

They had settled in an alcove seat, and she sagged against the cushioned expanse, feeling her world closing in all around her.

Ox smiled. "I am the most intelligent man in England, and I daresay perhaps even Europe. I can figure a few things out, Miss Albarn. Oh, and your name is not so common as to keep me from drawing the connection between you and your father, you know."

"Of… of course," she said faintly.

"And of course, I am not so uninformed as to not be aware of the financial troubles facing the Eaton family."

This threw her for a loop. "Wait a minute… Financial troubles?"

He nodded. "Of course. Surely you know that the Eaton family owes a great deal of money to Miss Hepburn's family? Why else would Mr. Eaton pursue her, when they are both so clearly unsuitable for one another?"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to… give me a moment…"

"I take it you were not aware of this?" Ox said gently.

Maka shook her head.

"Yes, they are quite bankrupt. The viscount cannot dream of marrying into respectable society, not with his reputation. So that leaves Soul…"

"To save the family from destitution…" Maka finished faintly.

"Indeed. But, Miss Albarn, what of your situation? Have you thought at all about what you shall do when this little farce has ended?"

Maka shook her head.

"Then let me make you a proposal…"

AN: I now know so many useless things about the year 1910. This really played for a sold-out show in at the Royal Opera House in London, its first time there since 1905 when it was banned by the Lord Chamberlain! It is still performed today and considered one of the most beloved operas of all time.


	18. Chapter 18

AN: This is not an ending I'm happy with, but Resbang is drawing to a close and I need to finish this story. I'll definitely be editing it more after I catch up on sleep (I've literally been surviving on coffee grounds mixed into food so I can stay awake and post this on my phone from the bathroom at the place where I work). So please don't judge me too harshly. I've always planned an extensive epilogue/omake and there are a ton of scenes which I had to cut from this due to time constraints and for brevity, but they'll be available in a companion series that will answer all questions and tie up all loose ends. I spent 6 months agonizing over this so trust me when I say there are not going to be loose ends left over after I have my way.

* * *

By the time that she and Ox finished their conversation, the opera was over, and patrons were beginning to leak into the hallways, bleeding out into the space near the window she had occupied for the past half hour.

In a daze, she followed them down to the main lobby and out to the curb where the cabs were queueing for pickup. The night air was cold on her skin, but she barely felt it.

"Maka?"

She turned to see Soul striding through the throngs of people toward her.

Maka ignored his questions as he asked her where she had gone, what Ox had been doing talking to her.

"I need to be alone for awhile, Soul. Please tell Wes I am riding back to the hotel with Lady Tsubaki."

Soul looked like he had been slapped in the face. "What's going on? Maka, are you alright?" He stepped closer and said very seriously, "Did he hurt you?"

"No! He did nothing to me, besides tell me the truth!"

"What- Maka, what did he say to you?"

"When were you planning on telling me about your family's financial troubles? About the debt that you owe to Miss Helburn's family?"

Soul swallowed visibly, his eyes darting around as he tried to find the right words.

But Maka was tired of waiting for Soul to find the right words. She turned on her heel and began marching down the cobblestone street, while Soul dashed behind her, dodging patrons and trying to keep abreast of her descent. In this he had the upper hand, for Maka's mobility was limited by her gown.

"Just stop for a moment and talk to me," he begged, drawing close enough to close his fingers gently over her wrist.

She spun around to face him, and annoyed opera patrons began filing past them in great streams while she and Soul struggled.

"You want to talk? What is there to talk about? You're marrying Anya and I'm going on my way– there's no reason for me to stay."

"Maka–" Soul implored, still holding her wrist.

"Let me finish!" She pulled away and swiped angrily at her eyes. Loose hair had begun to obscure her face from sight, but he thought there might have been tears.

"Ox Ford will be traveling across the world, studying dialects, and he needs someone to assist him in his notekeeping. He's asked me to come with him, and become his assistant."

Soul froze. "Become his assistant?"

Maka nodded, hardly daring to look him in the eye.

"You have more intelligence and creativity in your pinky finger than Ox has in his entire, oversized head."

"You're not taking this very well."

"I'm sorry, Maka. Congratulations. Or is it too early for that? Is he going to make you his wife, too?"

If he had expected anger or defensiveness, he was disappointed. She looked downward. "He– has indicated his willingness to make me a more permanent figure in his life… But he has not put me in the position of having to give him an answer yet."

"And?"

"I have hardly prepared an answer for a question which has been as yet unforthcoming."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?" She seethed.

"I said, bullshit. You'd be miserable with Ox. You'd get bored of being his notekeeper and you'd get angry when your ideas are passed over and ignored in favor of that talentless prick."

"That's unbelievable, coming from you– Everything you've ever done since I've met you was to deny your own desires and do what you think would make your brother happy, and it's clearly made you both miserable–"

"Shut up! Don't pretend you know anything about me or my brother."

"No, how could I? I'm just a poor girl from the East End, just a doll to dress up and play with and throw away when the fun's all over! Dolls aren't allowed to be people, with wants, and plans, and feelings. And that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Maka, I–"

"Oh, but you rich people know how to solve that, don't you? Did you think you could just throw some pretty jewelry at me and all would be forgiven? Am I so low, in your estimation, that my dignity can be mended by material gain?"

"That's not what that was about!"

"Then what was it? You can't keep running and hiding from your problems, Soul. You're throwing your life away, living like this!"

"You're the one who's throwing everything away!"

He was angry, and so was she, both of them breathing hard and only inches away– their faces nearly touching and their voices raised more than was necessary to be heard over the swirling snow.

"There's nothing for me here! You're marrying Miss Hepburn and I– I don't want to–"

"To what?"

"I don't want to stay and watch you being happy with someone else!"

"I'll never be happy with anyone else!"

They both paused, the full weight of what had been said sinking over them both.

m both.

"Maka, look at me," Soul brought his arms up to rest on her shoulders, bracing her against him as he gazed imploringly into her eyes.

"There is no happy ending with Anya. I just told her– just now, on the balcony, how I felt. That I couldn't marry her and we'd never be right together. Do you know what she said?"

"What– you–"

"Do you know what she said?" Soul repeated urgently.

"N-n- how could I?" Anger was the best bet. Because if she allowed herself to hope then she would shatter. In his arms, this near to him, she was so close to betraying her resolve. Her body ached for his touch, and she felt the heat of his fingers through her thin shawl– stoking a shameful, traitorous heat elsewhere in her body.

"She told me not to even finish, said that she would convince her father to forgive all the debt. Said it was the least she could do for the people who saved her sister's life. And then she told me to go find you." His eyes raked over her, and his gaze was hungry and so, so serious and she felt as though she were going to catch fire from the heat between them.

"Okay, well, you've– you've found me, so– I–" she stuttered. Could it really change anything?

"Maka, Maka, please." He was holding her hands between them now, earnest and determined. "We can be good together. I know we can, I– shit, I don't know how to speak worth a damn. If you only knew– how I feel–"

"How you feel? How you feel? What about how I feel?" She cried, trying to pull away from him. "We'd be destitute, Soul. I have nothing to offer you."

"I don't care about the money, Maka! The money doesn't matter. I'd follow you to the ends of the earth."

"You say that now," she spat bitterly. "But didn't you say that was your idea of– of Hell, being dependent on Wes for the rest of your life, never standing on your own? How can I–" she refused to cry, but her eyes were watering nonetheless, "How can I – let you suffer like that? And then to know, that I was the cause, because of selfish– because I selfishly thought we could be happy–"

"My idea of hell," he growled, "Is being without you."

"But–"

"If I married Anya, if I let you go, I'd regret it for the rest of my life. You're the one who said I needed to stop running away from my problems. Well, I'm not running away anymore."

"Soul," she whispered. His collar flapped in the wind and she wound her hands into it, surprising him, pulling him closer, down, down, until his lips were on hers, and then she let herself go.

It was like diving into water, or maybe catching on fire– it was sudden and it was irrevocable. The kiss was nothing gentle, nothing sweet. It was everything she had feared. Kissing Soul opened the floodgates of yearning she had kept hidden and buried since she'd gotten to know him on the train, since she'd heard his piano, since she'd fallen in love with him. Desire roared through her and overpowered any resistance it encountered along the way– her hands were twisting into his hair, and her tongue was scraping against his sharp, sharp teeth, and he was gasping and she was pressing herself to him, needing to feel him closer, as close as two people could be.

Still, she had to try to resist. "I won't do it to you, I won't– ruin you."

"Maka Albarn," Soul said, pulling away with a rueful smile. "You couldn't ruin me if you tried."

* * *

Those of you who read on past my disclaimers, I'm going to reiterate that there is a forthcoming companion series that clears up what happens from here on out. dont kill me


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